Bird on the Wing

Poetry from the Junkman’s widow

By random chance, your number
came up; you had to leave,
It’s no perpetual slumber:
You are dead. So now I grieve.

But what is dead? I wonder,
just what do I believe?
Throughout my life, I ponder:
Just what happens when we leave?

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Elizabeth Barnesco

Poet, Bookavore, Eco-Gardener, Dog-Lover: A Dreamer in Her Third Act...