Dove

A young boy swings,
Kicking his foot against the tree.
The nymphai chastise him;
He lifts his gaze and speaks.

“Why, of all birds,
Is the soft dove the creature
That Erotes have chosen
To dance with them in this world?”

The nymphs scoff, for he
Has answered his own question;
And yet he does not understand truly
The impact of which he asks.

One drifts down from the cherry-laden boughs,
Takes his hand in her soft, red hands
And smiles into the boy’s face.
“Love is the answer.” He frowns; she laughs.