When you were born

When you were born, it was winter,
or summer; a summery winter,
or something.
The Spring had just sprung,
or the Fall had just fallen;
the leaves were all golden
and dropping.
The day you were born
was the middle of the night
as the night had just turned
into morning.
The mourning dove sat
In it's downy lined nest to protect
the fine babies it sang to.
And you were as loved and as
doted upon, as your birth broke
through all we once handled.
It's just, these strange times,
 and these petty dime crimes;
but we loved you,
we loved you,
We desperately loved you.
We loved you,
if ever so badly.