From the highest branch at dawn, a mourning dove,
one note short in his song — one note louder, one note longer,
one note more persuasive and poignant, one note
more present in each infinitely patient absence,
until I became the note itself — and although I had begun
by passing through the neighborhood like anyone,
I was now a sacred bell being carried up a mountainside
into the sweet gray mist.
And oh, the pilgrims’ gentle, careworn hands!
Have they ever felt like this?
Like mine do now, by this caress?
And yours, that find me in my nothingness?