Feathers
Recall that morning
when there were so many feathers
blowing against the window
we weren’t sure for a minute
where we were or what the season was.
At first it seemed like snow,
but no, not in July.
Feathers, we mused. Maybe a firecracker
misfired and scattered a mourning
dove’s nest (dreadful thought).
Feathers, we laughed. Maybe they’d all come loose
from a goose-down pillow hung out to air,
carried away in a gust.
Recall over breakfast of coffee and eggs
it occurred to us that a fox
might have been in the hen house
but then we remembered we no longer
had any chickens in the coop
nor, sadly, children on the swings.
Recall how old we felt.
Recall toward evening we learned the swan
in the pond down the hill was dead.
Whoever aimed had probably not heard
the silver song amid her plummeting wings.
How sadder still than old were
fragile feathers blown against the window.
Why.
Dreams
(A villanelle)
One by one the blue cups broke.
She watched them shatter
with little noise, but gone like smoke.
Her reveries evoke
a lively time of children’s patter.
One by one the blue cups broke.
Outside she listened to spring frogs croak
and raindrops splatter
with little noise, but gone like smoke.
Sometimes when she slept she woke
to hear the loud accusing chatter.
One by one the blue cups broke.
When air was thick enough to choke,
she thought she saw the ashes scatter
with little noise, but gone like smoke.
Cold, she donned a heavier cloak
and told herself it didn’t matter.
One by one the blue cups broke
with little noise, but gone like smoke.
About the Poet
Marsha Foss returned to her home state of Minnesota after 37 years in Maryland. She has degrees from the University of Minnesota and Johns Hopkins University. She lives in Saint Paul and enjoys being connected to the area’s amazingly vibrant writing community. She has had pieces accepted by Glass: Facets of Poetry and Down in the Dirt.