dove of peace

The dove of peace 


A white dove landed on his windowsill
plucked a feather of its plumage and flew off
He opened the window, picked  up 
the white feather wondered whom he had
betrayed with his silence

Looked into the fathomless gulch of his
consciousness and petrified bones of what
he should have done but failed to do
the many he should have called but didn't 
because it was late in the night 

The phone in the hall, cobwebbed by neglect
he lifted the receiver, heard the hum
of eternity and what had ceased  to matter
He rang a number he remembered, but 
no one answered as he sowed he harvested