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.

Sometimes, 3 AM,
I wake in another time
and you’re still here.

Just back from a walk,
listening for orioles
or some other luck.

I have your collar,
your blanket and velvet bone,
somehow, still have you.

I turn to the sun
and still read poems out loud
as I did for you.

You were the center
of every greening spring day,
each sky assembling.

Stardust to stardust,
velvet February snow,
you’re back on your trail.

You loved your people,
on a sunny day in spring —
soft-eyed and ears flat.

Sun shines on your spots —
every place that you felt safe
your long happy life.

Your fresh contentment,
walked through each deep forest,
filled up every room.

You, at the center —
the heartbreaking commonplace
that’s now empty, gone.

C.S. Lewis (“…tiny, heartbreaking commonplace”)