LIBBY GOODSIR
Three poems
Everywhere
On sills, ledges, shelves
there is a film of dust
my mother called it
the days falling through the air.
What if……
In emptying the deer’s brown pond eyes,
snagging the last gill breath, falling swift
feathered flight ……
we are plucking the heart from love.
Who Knows
I wonder will I dress on the morning of my
death.
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?