Mourning Dove

I did not keep him from his dreams I opened the window to let them fly Invited the gales to carry him Over the pine trees To a distance my begging eyes Could not view And I knew this Early on I saw the writings on the wall But chose to skim the page One is better at believing The lies they tell themselves When love intervenes And logic dies a hard death Excuses come packed in a heavy crate Like the Fruit of the Month Club Sweet juicy selections Bound to brown and spoil Over and over I imagined a scenario Where your wings would tire from flapping Your eyes would search the horizon For my faraway branch And with a deliberate descending Through space And spaced out reasoning You would want only to land Where I laid quietly engulfed In a featherbed made of misery's memories I could have held you better Could have clipped your wings With demands and commands That lovers often toss at one another Seeds to feed the pigeons That know a meal is offered daily Should they choose not to leave that square I could have held you better Preening your ruffled feathers A most exotic bird of many colors To cage you would have been merciless Yet it would have given me something to love On sad mornings in November