Doves Do Not Cry, But Murmur

Doves Do Not Cry, But Murmur

The grass grows with equal severity,
Temerity,
On either side of the wall.

Dark headers bloom,
Roil,
Boil,
In a raucous assembly,
Wing beats, breast ruffles, heart croons
For the onslaught of Spring.

Diminutive blades bow
Low under splatter and spray
Until moist warmth settles,
An ever-increasing, palpable blanket,
On both sides of the wall.

And, doves do not cry,
But murmur.

Reaching, twisting, growing fat and heavy;
Heady, swelling, reaching still as though
Otherwise all life would be for naught.

A sway begins
With precise synchrony
On the left,
And on the right.

~ David Jay Spyker

~~~~~

"Which Side of the Wall?", 1996, Acrylics on Canvas Laid on Hardboard

I wrote this poem sometime in 2002, and wanted to share it as Spring unfolds and grows into Summer. It is always a mystical time of the year, filled with anticipation, potential, and even danger. Just as the title of a painting is extremely important to me, I feel that the line arrangement and punctuation of a poem speaks as much as the words.