The Red Doves,
They seem to fly near,
now.
They are more friendly.


Maybe,
They have even become my friends.
I can feel my shoulders,
when they are near.

Those sticks,
only hold my head,
now.
Bones, muscles and flesh.

When my tiny Red friends were not near
those winter months,
The Alamo window
seemed lonely.

Blank and deep stares.
Nothing.
Impassive stares.

Time seemed to not move then.
I don't notice it now.
Without them,
I do.

The Red Doves,
they make me feel
joyful maybe even youthful,
now.

I worry for the winter months,
they'll leave me like the rest,
they'll leave.

They'll leave
and those sticks
become rusted,
they'll hurt.

Salt roses bloom
at the thought.

I wish never
that The Red Doves
leave me.