Mourning becomes the mourning dove

 

 

One engenders the Son through the ear of the Virgin.

One grieves with the Mother at the foot of the Cross.

 

One knows the All is no more for the gain.

One mourns the All is no less for the loss.

 

One ever-arriving with the promise of peace,

White as ash from the Eternal Flame.

 

One murmurs in fear at the rumor of war,

Dressed in the dust from which she came.

 

One is the talk of Nicea, the splitter of Empires,

A third of the Three that is One.

 

One is—one in a million,

So long as she throws a shadow in sun.

 

One forgives the bloody torturers,

For they know not what they do.

 

And one can’t forgive the Omniscient,

And can’t because they do.

 

She watchfully roosts in the dimming Garden

In the punishing silence that follows the Fall.

 

She lights the elect like votive candles

In their search for the Word that began it all—

 

Steady as pi under flighty Polaris,

Cooing her comforting all will be well.

 

And one's had her fill of divine motherese,

And can't but demur: Time will tell.

 

One threads the rainbow and the gold shafts of light,

As she wings to the ark with the green twig of life.

 

One weathers the cold gray pummel of rain,

And will not be the tempter for more mortal strife.

 

Dove of the flood in every tear,

A flutter arriving and fleeing.

 

Dove ever between a wave and a wave

On the great wept ocean of Being.

 

One is eternal

And one persists.

 

One may be only a ghost in a dream.

One suffers and therefore exists.

 

From the dim of the vale of tears,

From the dovecote above the heavenly throne,

 

Launch these sisters of Beauty and Truth,

Always together and perfectly alone,

 

A Mary and Martha whose flights never cross,

Both carry an urgent message from Love.

 

Holy becomes the Holy Spirit.

Mourning becomes the mourning dove.

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