.
The silence of the mourning dove,
more mournful than her song.
She’s lost her mate, her will to live,
yet time still crawls along.
Of days gone by, she dreams her dreams,
when she last heard his song.
In widow’s weeds, by empty nest,
in grief she’ll ever long.
I loved a someone, thought she loved me;
I wrote for her a song.
Now, it just brings, tears to my eyes.
The train keeps moving on.
In hobo camps along the way,
I’ve found where I belong.
Friends lost their way, their will to live,
their time will not be long.
.
Dennis Cardiff: Poems and Prose 
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