The Day Is A Mourning Dove
Rising and setting upon grey wings
the day is a mourning dove.
With pale breast she softly coos
o’er her children with purest love.
Yet no sorrow is in her eye,
unalloyed is the light
by which we lift and place each step
‘til we usher in the night.
We greet the evening like a friend
as we settle near the hearth,
opening to the page last bent
we forget the toils of earth.
Between the realms of book and dream
my eyelids flutter closed.
A fledgling to the nest returned
curled up like a budding rose.
© 2016 Emily
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