Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Mourning, Dove


There’s much to be said
For the roof o’er my head,
For the groceries, the skillets, the dishes
It’s not always fun
But when day is done
It’s a good life, being the Mrs.

No longer with rocks,
I’m washing his socks
And the rest of the laundry in style
While capturing frames
And looking up names
Some visit only once in a while.

They’re gold, shades of gray,
Red, brown and blue jay,
They soar on the winds with abandon.
Unconfined, in their space
Wings that beat, hearts that race
With a joy I can only imagine.






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