Mourning Dove

The path that led me to this place is gone.
A stranded waif, my thoughts collide; I go
to see what’s here before the night is dawn,
impending doom yet sets upon me: No!
The stars in skies will only go to show
that leaves have turned from green to gray to black.
What once was just a thought is now a blow
so harsh, as leaving welts upon my back.
When suddenly I hear a certain crack,
I turn to spot a brittle, shaking nest.
And careful to retrace my fresh, new track,
I wonder why she is in the forest?
I found the city-dwelling Mourning Dove
where I could not reach her, high up above.


Author's note: A Spenserian sonnet.