Born out of time, a fault not your own,
bearing along the wisdom of sages,
on tiny dove-like wings you lit upon the earth.
Spreading wider to touch with gentle flutter,
for one sweet, though bitterly brief, moment.
A whisper soft impression from the artist’s brush
left upon a canvas of glue and gold, and gray and black.
Your golden hues brightening the darkened background
like shafts of sunlight streaming through an empty room at dusk,
leaving a trail of light as it meanders its way through open doors
to beam in upon–other rooms–other lives.
Some felt the flutter of dove’s wings,
others saw the artist at work with the brush.
Some will remember, still others will not;
but the earth, she remembers and mourns
the passing of her little dove.
The canvas recalls and yet bears the impression,
and the hope of tomorrow is borne
in the colors still left
upon the artist’s palette.
