Only A Dog: In Honor of Sheela

Hiking,

the manzanita trees,

wet with welcomed rain,

the earth in singing relief,

this spring,

the streams are full.

 

My sister goes hiking now,

alone,

her friend,

a dog named Sheela,

has left for other lands,

places we don’t always believe in.

 

Has she gone to the spirit world?

Her love and loyalty for my sister,

so clear,

so deep,

transcending death?

 

Will my sister’s heart,

so broken now,

ever find enough solace?

 

She was only a dog.

 

Only a dog,

whose friendship took my sister high,

into trails that lifted her soul,

when she needed it most.

 

This grief,

brings on others,

the power of its unleashed force,

abundant.

 

There will be healing.

There has to be,

but it won’t come easily.

For my sister and Sheela

shared that mysterious bond,

that took them beyond

explanations

and definitions.

 

The streams are full.

My sister will go alone now.

And if she believes,

Sheela will be running alongside her,

among the manzanita trees,

wet with welcomed rain.

 

Run on, dear Sheela.

 

Run on.

Held Tight

Held tight by disbelief

tighter still by dismay.

 

A bloated buffoon

with forked tongue

in charge now

and able

to set a course

to dictate

to hold the cards.

 

But the winds still move

according to earthly laws,

birds fill the trees

as morning crests,

children still say

“You are so silly.”

 

Please.

Please.

Please.

 

Not yet,

not yet.

Filled with Sky

Each day,

I let a little more go.

 

Ideas.

Feelings.

Stories.

And fear

of the welcomed emptiness,

that will surely

take the place,

of everything,

that used to be,

me.

 

And then?

 

Birdbath,

filled with sky.

Hugo and Sassafras

 Puppies.

And there we were,

into the woods,

the brook,

the meadow,

our hearts overflowing into the open wild, 

together,

 in search of nothing more,

than what we could discover,

together.

 

Then,

I let them go,

to other hands and hearts,

as life does,

they went that way,

I went another.

 

In stories and visits,

I saw them thriving:

eight years of glory.

 

Two phone calls,

within months of each other, 

genetic balls of cells,

carrying them both away.

 

Buried now, 

near each other.

 

Those of us who loved them,

thoroughly,

in deep,

gifted in that loving.

 

I see them still:

puppies,

into the woods,

the brook,

the meadow,

and someday,

I will follow.

 

                                                        Hugo and Sassafras

More

There is the inferred,

between

the lol

and the <3.

 

I linger there,

believing there is more:

more heart,

more depth,

more intrique.

 

I picture a place,

the characters,

the conflict to be resolved,

and that’s where

I most want to stay.

 

In plots, 

in points well taken,

in words that convey it perfectly:

stories,

images,

feelings.

 

Borne up and out,

of texts 

and emails,

sent through the air.

 

How do the words stay intact?

 

And there,

in what’s not said,

in what might have been said,

if you called,

if I did:

 

I 

go.

 

 

This Fish

Plucked right out of the sky,

a fish of largeness,

a bass,

and me,

not expecting this big.

 

All day,

I thanked the bass,

as it lay on ice,

in keeping.

 

Then me,

steaming and eating the fish,

imagining its life in this lake, 

its body,

sleek scales in glinting flight,

water flight,

weightless,

like outer space.

 

And me,

pulling it

right out of its sky.

 

With every bite,

this fish,

now,

me.

A Few More Days

This is their world: seagull in heightened flight, heron low skimming, geese flocked up close among lilies, loons in tremolo warning, snakes curled long absorbing heat.   Among them now, barefoot and listening to Beethoven, first thing Sunday morning, and suddenly, all I want, is to be part of their world.   Music off, breeze picking up, the lake is stirring now.   There it is: their world, and me, thinking, and trying too hard, to find a way in.   In a few days.   In a few days, limbs and breath, in tranquil stretching, loose and deep, will be floating effortlessly, in our world.

Low Tide Gift

And there they were,

tucked low and close,

among the sea stones. 

 

In search of mussels,

I found a star fish,

suddenly thrust into

a direct hit of sun.

 

A moment to make sense of this,

and then: 

more of them,

large ones, 

blue,

white,

coral,

star fish.

 

Low tide,

just minutes spent out of water,

I watched as the ocean returned

down into the crevices.

 

I went down, too,

and stayed,

lost in the reverie of tides,

as the water settled in around their arms,

opening,

displaying minute filaments,

white as pearl,

slowly reaching for,

rock,

kelp,

and each other.

 

And there I was,

caught,

not in a net, 

but in awe,

as each one vanished,

beneath the waves.

 

The Story, Rewritten

Out beyond the sunken shallows,

a saltwater bay,

almost still,

save for one loon.

 

This loon,

alone,

and I sink down,

interpretation low and sad.

 

I imagine it lost,

abandoned,

its mate long gone:

that storm,

those lights,

that boat.

 

But if I bend it back,

change the story

I can see it content,

after a morning bath,

she’s clean and alert,

a webbed foot thrust out behind,

as it floats,

giving in to the currents,

it knows deep

in the silence of its bones.

 

A small boat approaches from the north,

and then I hear it:

a quick trilling tremolo of warning.

 

There’s another loon,

beyond the buoys,

swimming in.

 

I am hushed,

and humbly whisper,

“I’m sorry.”

 

I leave them to what they know:

water,

inside and out,

fresh and salty.

 

Alone and together.

 

The story,

rewritten.

 

 

This Dog

This dog,

as still as a frozen dessert,

a screen door the only obstacle

between her

and that chipmunk,

squawking in a rhythmic riot.

 

She has caught two,

both dead within seconds,

perhaps longer in chipmunk time.

 

Mostly,

the chipmunks get away,

the ornamental border plants

at full density now.

 

After the chase,

with nothing to show,

she trots back to her blind,

appearing nonplussed,

maybe even content,

to have tried and not succeeded.

 

But she has the memory of a chipmunk,

held tight in her jaws:

it happened

and in each attempt,

the memory rides high and brilliant,

at the border line.