Fallen hearts glad

There we were

swaying

in a snug swing

 

Watching the west

from our friend’s parent’s porch

the most hospitable folks

even in their absence

trusting

 

We had nothing to do

to read, to go to, to be, to talk about

nothing to do but be alive

 

We drank wine

and watched the birch row swaying in

come what may

and laughed at being alive

 

At being full up. To the brim. With love.

Letting Go

The service road moved under the carriage of my car

Jostling hours away along the wood

Up where no one would hear, I was sure

in the gray area between foothills and mountain

 

I locked the doors, an urbanite out of place

Jack hobbled along as I climbed into a clearing

 

I wondered,  always

Sheepdog? Lab?

 

I drove the shovel into ground soft enough to dig easily

a necessity for some reason,

out where the wild things would certainly enjoy an easy feast.

 

I pulled two heavy objects from my pockets

squeezed the squeaky ball

I threw it out ahead of us into shrubs.

He didn’t go right off, right away.

He was always a smart dog.

 

Finally, he turned to see where his ball had gone.

The hammer slid into place.

I was close enough not to aim

the shot exploded from the hands that had raised him.

 

For hours I didn’t move.

I stood over Jack’s body

wondering; why I hadn’t

taken more time with him

and dug the hole first