Poem 7, June 7

A summer Poem

I walk past the thorn tree,
wet with rainwater, a sagging limb
with a thorn pricks down into my head.

Before I have bled,
I shake the branch I need to trim.
A startled dove leaves her nest. She

brings a moment of rejoicing,
to me for poetry, to her for love & hope
of new life to come, voicing from her wings.