Some called her Paloma,

for her feathered tresses

were the stuff of a

watercolor storm sky,

its undertones of lilacs

and periwinkles flashing

through the gray.

Her skirts billowed

and her sweaters

caught the breeze

like a spanning set

of bladed wings.

Her stern amber gaze

was always watching,

calculating,

but she was a

warm soul,

her cooed words

inviting, nostalgic.

She always loved cities,

with their wrought

iron park benches,

spiked rooftop overlooks,

and misted fountain basins.

As much as 

she loved mine,

she never stayed in

one place

for too long.

I've heard people are

calling her Due, now.

Pomba,

Columbe,

even Pigeon,

but never again

Paloma.