Threshold

I crouch at the threshold of the future,
considering how to orientate myself.
In my right hand I grasp a sword,
polished and sharpened to a spiteful edge,
ready to lunge and hack, vituperating
fiercely at whatever comes my way.
In my left I bear a dove, perfectly white,
nestled and sleeping in my palm.
This I will release as an offering of peace,
to all of the forthcoming possibilities,
singing grateful psalms of love. Both good
and ill will come, of course, but I can only
welcome the hereafter with one hand.

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