The Dove's Olive Leaf

Writing a legend,

Writing a storm,

Unto a dove,

Will an olive leaf form.

 

Crisp and neat,

A green lamp shade,

In order to complete,

What has already been made.

 

The white of the dove,

The green of the leaf,

A pleasant shove,

For an undying grief.

 

The dove itself is not at loss,

But a cloud of gray,

The sky it will cross,

Shedding tears into the bay.

 

The leaf of the olive is dropped,

The dove to dive it would not.

And before it could be stopped,

With a rain drop it was shot.

 

Into the bay went the leaf,

The dove watching high from above,

And as if to add to the grief,

The dove was the lack thereof.

The End

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