Jude Goodwin, Canadian Poet

Jude Goodwin

She uses the personal to translate the universal.

Her Music

Her Music

I spend a portion
of each day in the music
of our child. She rushes home,
drops coat and books
on the table, before
her snacks, before her laptop,
she pulls the bench out,
a loyal friend
waiting waiting worn
and wobbly
for her return,
she pulls the bench out
and sits, touches the piano keys
only lightly
then presses her young soul
into their arms
and dances there—
a waltz at first,
then sonata to the garden,
sonatina for the little dog—
dances and the air lights up,
a hundred cascading points of song.
If I stand behind her
they move over my body,
up my back, when I breathe
they fill my lungs.
I close my eyes
and the sun is rising,
or appearing suddenly
from behind a storm cloud,
the room is filled
with god rays,
or there's a dark rose bud
blooming in a tall glass vase,
growing rounder then folding
over, dropping its petals
to the polished wood,
or there's a girl,
slender armed,
bent over such fierce fingers
a dozen young men
holding black and white horses
call out to her
Away. Away.

 

 

 

 

The snow has stopped

The wind, the wind