heart of sunflower

by Marjorie Gowdy

Out this window, cerulean sky, no clouds, not even the humble cirrus.

Splashes of emerald on sapphire

arms of poplar point plaintively

a female grosbeak intent on furtive pecks, on pace for Naples.

Pane smudged where old bear leaned into the bricks last night.

The shepherd jumped, cried, then curled into her covers.

A large window into this fleeting visit

punctuated by guilt and beauty.

Powdered iron slips over the mountain draught now.

Flattened streams of smoked ham reach toward the vale.

Dusky juncos pepper the chill grass, here till spring.

Will they miss me.

Marjorie Gowdy writes at home in the Blue Ridge mountains of Callaway, VA. Gowdy was the Founding Executive Director of the Ohr-O'Keefe Museum of Art in Biloxi, MS, which she led for 18 years. Now retired, she worked in other fields that fed her love of writing, including as a grants writer. Her work is informed by the tumbled Virginia mountains as well as her time on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and along the coasts of Virginia and North Carolina. She is currently newsletter editor for the Poetry Society of Virginia.