Dove of my Soul
The doves mourn, plaintive and inconsolable, while the little sparrows chirp happily. The dove of my soul bleeds for everything she cannot heal. Weeps for every broken promise and shattered hope. Every careless passage, every misbegotten dream.
A therapist once told me I’m too porous. I mourn too easily. Sensitive to the extreme, my boundaries are often violated by my failure to protect myself.
My dove soul longs for happiness but she is weighted, heavy with encumbrance, bound tightly to her burden like an albatross she can’t break free of. Flight is impossible. Pecking the ground, she longs to soar, but cannot budge the burden of her body and the wind, feeling her dilemma, pushes mightily but cannot help her.
Resigned to earth she dreams of flight; imagines herself weightless and when she wakes, solid and immovable, she turns her head and weeps into her useless wings . . .
LBM 3/15/04
(a sad little poem ~ i am happy to report that i have found my wings. Star, bless her sweet cygnet soul, is a swan angel now. Her mama didn’t want her, and she sustained some injuries which couldn’t be healed, and had to be euthanized.)
