Outside a ring-necked dove is cooing, Strong
spurs of sound bubble like a growling flame
guttering out. She rests and calls again,
less than my jumping mind, her simple same song.
Once more she gently calls and arcs around
with all singing now and here the same
until it fades and dies, vibration losing aim
but now and there again and never wrong.
Somehow I know my body-soul needs this
longing for the sweetness of her inspiration
and if inside my straggly lines you miss
a rolling rise and caroling creation,
at least you’ll not be trapped in mindful lies:
at least she calls without an explanation.