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A quiet complementarity arrived

at my front door this morning; side

by side they stood, a nation state

of grays and blues like doves and

jays, they were a pair, though I

lost count of them way after two,

they multiplied in tones and rings,

my worded mind falls short to

comprehend, much less explain.

Your civil war is done, they said,

the shopworn carpetbaggers fled,

we saw them leave with sorry

tales between their legs and knew

their fall you would no longer try

to stop. May we come in?

I may have answered yes or not,

they filled the space so fast that is

the mess I call my home and set

up shop of sorts, a clearing house

of odd and even implements I’ve

never seen, except in dreams.

And then it dawned on me I’ve seen

them come around before in shades

of hope and indigo, they hung the

drapes that separate the needless

and the false from where I keep my

word, and words I use to write.

The table’s set, the pen and paper

stacked, no need to tear myself apart

from you, the dove and jay, at right

and left, will manage fêtes of merriment

and brew a purple monkshood wine to

lift the spirits of the poisoned thoughts

who felt themselves unworthy—now

they know that only friends of deep

and true affection gather here.

POISON ALERT: Monkshood, all parts of it, are deadly. This is only a poem. Do not eat or drink anything from the plant, and if you must touch monkshood, wash your hands thoroughly afterwards.

© Elaine Stirling, 2012