The doves arise in hope

Hope rises like the gray doves who,
startled from their funereal marching
by a door flung wide by tiny hands,
erupt from the grass amidst
a tender thunder
of wings and clamorous coos.
They sit still as Job and friends in the oak’s branches,
each head bent to reassure his fellows
that the storm who is my daughter will subside,
will yield,
will retreat,
and theirs again will be the field.

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