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.