Crying Dove

A white tremor hovers

Where the world’s thin places open

Its body is only suggestion

But its crying is real

A soft collapse in the air

A silver ache leaking through the seams

Each tear is a small undoing

A quiet unthreading of the sky

As if sorrow were rewriting light

And when dawn reaches for it

The dove breaks into brightness

Not healed

But glowing with the truth

That some cries

Are older than wings