Silence and Its Echo
She listened to the mourning doves that spring.
They nested in the neighbor’s sycamore.
She said she found their sadness ravishing.
I listened at the morning’s open door,
and silence is the singing that I heard—
silence in the neighbor’s sycamore.
She memorized the plainsong of each bird—
the calling of each voice from quietness—
Silence is the calling that I heard.
Silence and its echo. I confess
that I misunderstood, began to dread
the calling of the doves from quietness.
Her rapt obsession was a kind of thread
that stitched the failing echo to the song.
I didn’t understand, began to dread
the meaning of her focus as those long,
uncertain echoes quieted her song.
She was obsessed with mourning doves that spring;
she said she found their sadness ravishing.