Choices – An original poem

I do not want the constellations any nearer
– Walt Whitman


I look out the window
this spring; a dove
is singing on a branch
of the apple tree.
I see the early indications:
this will be a fruitful
season.  He probably
agrees; I rock in my chair.
I think it is the same one
that was here last season;
even perhaps the same one
that took birth here.
I wonder which I would like
to be if I had one choice:
the tree or the dove?
Now, I come back to my chair.

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