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| Mary Of The Dove |
| He brushed the flakes, with fingers numb Away from her winsome cheeks That beckon to surely come For what every man seeks. He had cut the gown to round the hips. The pelvic curve suggestion, As the tender smiling lips, To kiss imagination. This Madonna draped in white linen, Hands waiting, outstretched, Eyes beckoning, open. His soul is regret. Her marble is a promise to his agony. Lost cool love in the light. His hands a solemn tragedy. He turns the lines in sight. And she gestures for the might of God, He bears her spirit to heart. He has carved the rod To strike his back in parts. Of the angels he has none but hands That have carved his one love. And, unanswering it stands. The Mary of the Dove. � 2000 DPMcClellan |
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