I used to call them
Morning Doves, those birds
with breasts the rosy color
of dawn who coo us awake
as if to say love . . .
love . . . in the morning.
But when the book said
Mourning Doves instead
I noticed their ash-gray feathers,
like shadows
on the underside
of love.
When the Dark Angel comes
let him fold us in wings
as soft as these birds’,
though the speckled egg
hidden deep in his nest
is death.
Linda Pastan, chronicillnessliving.blog, May 5, 2020
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