Rotunda
I have a dove made from clay
My voice is drawn to a whisper
I no longer cling to these marble pillars
Will you listen?
The dove holds not an olive branch, but a seed
My voice is a smooth silver, reflective
I have a message as clear as cool water
Will you listen?
The dove turns from soft clay to stone
I raise my voice to brass
My hands carry tension in clenched fists
Will you listen?
The stone wings open and glisten with stained glass
I hear my voice cascade around these halls and come back to me in triplets
I am steady
Will you listen?
2 thoughts on "Rotunda"
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When enough single cause citizens completely empty the rotunda with what seems justifiable arguments, we will have your poem to fill the empty space. Moving work.
Moving. Love the repeated question. Feels like a song.