Another morning, another wake, Through the door to start the day, In the garden, in the plants, Finding bluebirds on the fence. Pulling weeds, daylight beams, One I’ve not seen says to me, “How are you, how are you? Too long you’ve been in the blue! Did you know, have you heard, The dove you knew is in the dirt?” I didn’t know, I didn’t care, I wished them well with their affairs, But I cried, but I cried, All I wanted was for that dove to fly.

In the soil, through the toil, I wouldn’t let new tendings spoil. Through the sun, through my teeth, Murmuring softly in heat— Another voice, another bird, On the picket it sings of hurt: “How could you, how could you? All this time the dove knew! Nest of dirt, nest of dust, Dirty white feathers, I mistrust!” Now I heard, now I cared, But what to do except despair? Please be safe, please be fine, All I wanted was for that dove to fly.