A house of whispers, a house of rage, Where love and anger shared a page. A seven-year-old who learned to hide, From the unpredictable, turning tide.
Then on a wire, a flash of white, A feathered hope, a pure delight. A gust of wind, a sudden plight, It tumbled down from its great height.
“Leave it alone!” the voice rang clear, A sharp command born out of fear. But in my hands, I held it near, And felt a flutter quell a tear.
In the garage, on straw and cloth, We formed a true and sacred troth. Each night we’d walk, a silent pair, A girl and dove beyond compare.
At dawn he’d coo beside my pane, A gentle call through sun and rain. I’d let him in, safe from the strain, Our secret world, again, again.
One final night, a circled flight, He danced around me in the light. He flew away, and with his might, He taught my broken spirit flight.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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