Requiem

I found a dove lying broken I knelt just as it died. It had chosen my high window as its own patch of blue sky. A young dove it appeared to be, too young to know or care that windows are seductive when one's flying in the air. It was too young to wonder where Summer's leaves had gone, or to know there'll be new buds along with Springtime's song. Too young to taste wild berries hidden by an early snow. Too young to soar and soar someplace where only birds must know. Too young to choose a handsome mate and raise its very own; to age with grace and wondrous tales of places it had flown. Gently it's placed beneath an oak, on fallen leaves to lie. While its spirit, at last released, will fly and fly and fly.