Of Drifting Empty Shadows

Do you, remember my sisters? The roof alcoves full of doves Their little beaks like small pincers Wormed-out stars, like rosebuds. In their feathers, spring weaved silver By summer those threads were gold By autumn the scene a spilt-pitcher Of drifting empty shadows doled. And then the alcoves were sealed up By men who never loved or cared. The following spring lurched shrugged Forward but I was quite, unprepared. It tears into my heart my sisters How we too now have alcoves shut As if to ask where flown these winters Who wormed-out the rosebuds plucked?