About The Dove
I've written much about Noelle
Shamelessly bared my very soul
Epodes of sorrow, epoch in Hell
Each one a grievous episode . . .
But I forgot to tell you about the dove
Abyysmal pain her leaving caused
With searing hurt and nights insane
A man oblivious to laws
A driving drunk, a country lane . . .
But I must tell you about the dove
My son it was, I think, that day
While walking home from work
Perchanced to see it as it lay
And stooped to pick it up . . .
Within his hands, a sculptured dove
It was the day I chose her stone
Inscribing it with all my love
The granite, stately, stood alone
It's face imprinted with a dove . . .
Holding a rose dripping a tear
My son walked slowly up the road
With wonder written on his face
And mutely handed me a rose
Exactly like the one I'd placed . . .
Upon the tombstone of her grave
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