It’s hard not to think
that you’re coming back someday,
warm under my hand.

In late November
I crawled into this dark place
filled with your absence.

Flush in the sun,
you watched the day coming in,
velvet ears shining.

The beavers still work
on these trees by the river —
I think of us here.

Spring winds have begun,
I keep a forest for you
of fresh bloomed lichen.

Content as ever
with bare-bones, early fall sun,
your familiar grass.

Sun warming your fur,
you quivered in evening grass,
happy to just be.

You smelled all flowers,
learned of every animal
who also walked there.

You loved the green world,
happy with the feel of it
under your feet, nose.

The sun hung for you,
green earth warming underneath,
your eyes shined bright brown.

Our world was ornate,
a thousand mornings of sun —
tall grasses thread through.

You’re out ahead now,
some hidden path, soft grasses
under your soft feet.

The sun is the show,
I pull my chair up to it,
write (read) poems for you.

Dog with shining eyes,
smiles knowing that I love him,
he blooms with the field.

Us and grasshopper,
out on a big sky blue day,
all still setting forth.

Cold fall afternoons,
ecstatic spring green mornings —
none of it was small.

Mornings we were out
tracking the hidden lives of
nighttime animals.

You’ve been gone three months,
I live in different time,
I’m here or here or...

The great piece of turf —
dandelions and grasses,
and our luck, our luck.

Picking up the scent
of brown-eyed Susan, bee balm —
only gentle steps.