The head of the dove falls to the ground.
The same happens to the unicorn's horn, lost
like a little happy ending.
But I see how the sound of a violin
would look, wounded in a dark corner.
Remember the simplicity of a tree,
or hugging your father
in the transitions of day. He is smiling,
the lines on his face like strings
ready to be strummed.
Today I give you a field of grass
moving to and fro in the descending wind.
Stoop low, then; part the blades.
And you will find the head of the dove,
wingless and moving, stirring your life.
