I watched a mourning dove
fly up with such slow beat
of wings, it seemed barely
enough to make it fly.
My heart, a free thing, loose
and at odds with itself,
longed to fly with it, to be
its mate, to nest—to raise young—
to free young things in flight
in time, to stand at the edge
of a nest, full-fledged,
and push lovingly from behind.
Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser
