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Several days before I was to die A white dove flew into my garden. It had one black spot on its tail, As if a drop of ink had soiled Its purity. It looked at me As birds do: head sideways, Neck twisted, almost upside down; Then went the other way, fluttered, Cooed, straightened, and stared at me With more than human stillness. Our eyes Met, and I felt some understanding Pass between us, as if it sensed I was to die and felt compassion. And then I knew that I would live. Weeks after my miracle The dove returned, nesting near me, An ordinary bird. Of course I hold it dear. But who lived in Its eyes? Whose compassion sent The silent thoughts that turned my will? I know my own imagination May have spoken through the bird, Lifting me from death. But surely What we'll never understand Far surpasses what we know. The dove knows more than we. And I, Returned from death, am like a boulder Lifted up and left upon the shore By some majestic wave.
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