What the white dove is to peace

the loon is to loneliness

 

People, people everywhere—everywhere

But where they are: rush hour’s press of car

To car; the empty stare, the phone to ear

And the pounding rap and the rock guitar.

 

They’re frozen at the green light’s go;

Too many crowd a world too small;

And you stroll by and seem to know

There can’t be souls enough for all.

 

What the white dove is to peace

The loon is to loneliness.

 

The houses are Hopper’s, the trees are night’s own,

The town's full moon is a vacancy sign,

And though you are lonely, at least you’re alone

As you wander the walks through their shadow and shine.

 

And the windows glow so emptily,

They can’t be called a sign of life;

It feels as sad as heavenly,

The world beyond all love and strife.

 

What the white dove is to peace

The loon is to loneliness.

 

In the darkened woods, on the footpath home,

With nothing to fear but your own despair,

You mistake one turn, then you blindly roam,

And you're lost for life, you discover there.

 

Who knows the gods you entertain

Groping for where the path had curled

Toward the far-off melting windowpane

With all the warmth in all the world?

 

What the white dove is to peace

The loon is to loneliness.

 

O water so wild, so still dark and pale,

The north lake you ply by no stars and no moon,

Only the faraway whistle then wail

Of the haunted, inconsolable loon.

 

You point your prow away from shore

And paddle for that siren call,

And soon the dark you fear no more:

You’re no-one, nowhere, nothing at all.

 

What the white dove is to peace

The loon is to loneliness.