Mourning Doves
janine canan
What is that sound? I asked.
Mourning doves, you answered, nesting in the eaves.
The fir brushed against the window in warning.
Azaleas rushed every red into bloom.
Then suddenly Spring had to end --
their thick throaty voices were calling.
You were the first to wake -- from the bedroom you went.
Your voice too became thick -- with impatience,
stoic deception, brilliant betrayals.
I woke with an anguished start.
No! was all I could say -- I was shouting.
In my tone the frenzied flames were mounting.
I ran to your rolling hills, that always consoled me,
but there lay an empty valley.
Oh, why did you leave me to follow the mourning doves
that nested while we were sleeping?
Their voices were lush with seduction --
like yours, Beloved, before you flew away.
