Patricia L. Goodman, two poems


Sunrise was heaven—from first rosy blush

outside our farm bedroom, to full-blown

spectacle of rouged sky, to heart-quickening

burst above the horizon. We stood

at the window, fresh from warm covers,

to soak in the spectacle—never

could get enough. Sometimes I’d even step

out on the deck, closer to awe.

My new widow’s cottage in a creek valley

is sheltered from sunrise.

The sun awakens beyond the hill.

I get only slant light through trees,

shadows on banks. I am like the dowager

who misses the opening scene of every play.

By the time I see the sun each morning

its engines are hot and running hard.

Day begins without me.


Ten minutes into The Sibley Guide to Birds

I find him—a black throated blue warbler,

dead on my deck from a window strike.

I’ve lost this bird before I even counted him.

I never would choose this first viewing.