The Mourning of Doves
Out my Window She sings her morning song. Of what will be what is. What is not. And will never be. ALL four-square years all tears and fears. Shed like my skin now. Yet she still can sing. As she flys to him they have wings. Unlike I. You hated this picture. These mere magnolia’s, somehow where a threat. And they hang now where I … Continue reading The Mourning of Doves