Alabaster Dove

The white dove rides forsaken autumn skies, heart first.

It is absolution; upheaval; abandonment; an errand of love.

She bears the wings of the earth, white and torn; beating like waves. She sails crests of breezes 

moving like music. Glazed clouds tunnel her through storms. She is an arrow, unbent.

She is a broad tail – a quarter palm of sun.

Each feather is a finger, shorn by blades of gales, from whispers of a gentle moon:

a sickle one; a silver one, stealing the reflection of her flight.

She is a caught angel.

She presses no escape velocity, but gently sails gray currents to places distant in the rain,

and past the rain, where sheets of slate no longer churn the heavens into earth.

She launches at the troposphere, scattering shards of light like laughter.

She is no more a white dove, but an alabaster dove,

freshly let from the hand of the sculptor, winging.

Arriving at her crooked tree, silhouetted by coral skies, hushed by the recession of Giotto winds,

she slips into a bramble bowl beside a sleeping prince, heart first.

It is absolution; upheaval; abandonment; an errand of love.

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