Born out of time, a fault not your own.
Bearing along wisdom of sages,
on tiny dove-like wings you lit upon the earth.
Spreading wider to touch with gentle flutter,
For one sweet, though bitterly brief moment.
A whisper soft impression from the artist's brush
left upon a canvas of blue and gold, and gray and black.
Your golden hues brightening the darkened background;
like shafts of sunlight streaming through an empty room at dusk.
Leaving a trail of light as it meanders its way
through open doors,
to beam in upon-other rooms-other lives. Some felt the flutter of dove's wings,
others saw the artist at work with the brush.
Some will remember-still others may not.
But the earth, she remembers and mourns the passing
of her little dove;
the canvas recalls and yet bears the impression,
and the hope of tomorrow is borne
in the colors still found upon the artist's palette.
-C.Y. Zimmerman
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