by Ann B. Day
Lying limp on her bed by the window
overlooking the granite shores of the harbor,
Margot watches summer days come and go,
herring gulls soaring with afternoon clouds
above the ever-changing blues of the bay
here on the irregular, rocky coast of Maine.
Each day lobster boats, schooners,
and sloops slide by on westerly winds.
A pillow supports her head,
her blue eyes gaze down to the water
where a white, 12 -footer sailboat
lies waiting at its mooring in the harbor.
Margot knows she won’t be sailing the boat
she has skippered for sixty years;
she has multiple myeloma
and is aware her next journey is close by.
Her face is pale, her hands soft by her side,
her breathing shallow.
Suddenly, three black retrievers
burst into the house, panting from a walk
through the spruce and mossy woods,
Margot drops her hand down to pat
each dog’s head and, in turn,
whispers “good boy, good girl.”