From The Hand of Another
January 29th 2024
Sometimes I begin to wonder if
the cooing mourning dove
is lonely where it sits upon the eaves.
And, if such thoughts as these do fill
my mind, perhaps they fill his, too.
Perhaps when peering through the glass
he sees a solemn view of where I sit.
Why would I not hold out my hand,
if the dove may come and eat from it?
