On sills, ledges, shelves
there is a film of dust
my mother called it
the days falling through the air.
In emptying the deers brown pond eyes,
snagging the last gill breath, falling swift
we are plucking the heart from love.
I wonder will I dress on the morning of my
Will I fill the kettle, open the doors to the garden,
and turn on my tiny radio
or will I know there is only time for praying?