The Dove
(Poem by Wendy Howe )

When the room is veiled
by afternoon's light
and age seems to fade
from its wood and silver,

she returns -- occasionally
remembering she has been
the  wife  and partner
of a great man.

Fingernails peck
at the drapery cord
while eyes land
on the window sill
narrow as the swing
she used to ride
in the garden wearing
a white gown and blossoms.

Her body oscillated
between the pines and vast sky,

her soul flung
into the magician's hands
that made the fragile bird
appear then disappear --

only, she decided
which of her partings
would be real
or like flowers blooming
too early in the March fog --
a moment's illusion,
a Spring time ploy.
© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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