Doves coo still in winter

Sitting on fenceposts, olive branch clasped between beaks

Along rows of blunt talons, pricked graspers of no substance

They say mourning doves always cry each morning, each night

Voice carried on wind 'neath sunbeams and dew

Beyond casket beyond bounds

Mourning doves cry for no purpose, nor loss

Some song reminiscent of our own sorrows

Death; harbinger of woes yet to arrive

past tragedies and sins of mankind's

Reflected in the remembrance of mocking sing-song

Under my flower beds: you are still

of spring greens and lettuces

Daisies daffodils and chrysanthemums

No song nor tears could bring him forth

I'd like to lap the words from your mouth

Syrup, honeycombs of heart

Poison is sweet , soured with care

Soft agony feathers

romantic our misery

The soil I did trample beneath my boot

Compressed cypress, sad willow tree blooms

And when my bones are ‘neath the flowers bed

Surely, no mourning doves will cry