Be not afraid, my Dove, the ancient hawk
Has had his talons gloved, his wingtips trimmed,
The putrid wings, with feathers full of death.
He sits upon his perch, these days, with rattling breath
And calls across the desert he lately skimmed
In petulant rage. Impotent. Empty squawk.
And you, my Dove, my gentle little one,
Hidden in the rocks for far too long,
Must trust your wings. Never mind your fears
And plucked out feathers, and rivers of dried up tears.
You may not sit and mourn. Get up! Be strong
With wings made whole, and glide beneath the sun.