Courage, Dear Heart

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.