The Dove and the Crow
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the song without the words
And never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson
Yes, Emily, you are right.
Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
life’s sweet Dove.
But right beside it,
too near, perches Despair,
life’s ravenous Crow.
the thing with blue-black feathers
the color of a day-old bruise.
The Crow caws at the Dove,
stares it down with blood-red eyes.
The Dove cowers,
hiding its face under a pure white wing.
But curled into this ball
the color of virgin snow,
the Dove’s heart
begins to swell with song.
Its wings break free,
spread wide,
and loosen upon the world
the holy melody of Faith.
The Crow backs away,
taking its minor place.
The Dove takes flight,
soaring high and high and high.
Cynthia Pitman, author of poetry collections The White Room, Blood Orange, Breathe, and Broken, has been published in Amethyst Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Literary Yard, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem finalist), Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art (Pushcart Prize nominee), and other journals, and in anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight & Swept Away, Nothing Divine Dies, and What is All This Sweet Work?
Amethyst Review 