The poem conflates two longings. The first, that fledglings born in our arbor would come back to build a nest. Our older daughter had left for college and the younger would soon follow and, for several years, I chose a new spot each spring for the unused box. The last was high up under the eaves and I couldn’t see inside, but sometimes I’d watch, hoping a dove would fly in with a twig in her beak. All this was long ago. We sold our house. But before leaving, I climbed a ladder to take down the box and found a bundle of half-stitched twigs, dry weeds, and pine needles deep inside. The second longing is to go back to the last days of my father’s life and act with more compassion.
W. J. Herbert on "Mounting the Dove Box" |
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