I expect the whitest dove,
purity as the Spirit breaks apart
firm blue of our ceilinged sky,
a tapered shape, an elegance.
But Picasso was right.
True peace comes
with pretensions shed.
A waddling gait, a persistent
hunger, a messy trail leads us
to each other. Our feathers
are shifty of color, but we like
people and we gather
with our kind. No one sings
our praises as we soften the air
with our short sad songs. Only then
can true grace drift down.
Carol Hamilton lives in Midwest City, Oklahoma. Her forthcoming poetry collection is Shots On (Finishing Line Press).