The Dove

                            

The Dove

I’m done, says the rut, sits down.  A poem

gets up at four a. m., moves on. 

It’s like my friend who’s been ready to die

for a year, but still has more to say.

We read his words, his poetry he thinks

is prose, and learn what we didn’t know:

a life is not over, is never done.

It moves south, west, wherever the sky

Wants to open, wherever the dove

waits, lonely, but never alone.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        26 December 2011

                                      

I'm posting an evening early because I will be in the Temple 

tomorrow and won't have time to write.