This is us also,
the being’s story of grief —
one on either side.

Where you lived your life,
I imagine you here still,
looking back at me.

The joy of April
among the dandelions
pulled up by rain, sun.

We were a close pair,
every forest was ours,
watching the light rise.

Wide-eyed and content,
we went out into the day,
each other’s shadow.

You were my other,
your story began with me —
the cold, forgotten.

All is forgiven —
the mysteries that go unsolved,
the days that are lost.

Our companionship
with the early morning world,
birdsong in our ears.

Time goes by quickly,
unshaped without your presence
that gave it meaning.

We combed through the woods,
wildflowers, moss, and lichen —
all the tender life.

They must be starting —
your lily of the valley
on our forest path.

Your fur was patterned
like the soft swirls of the moon,
a light in darkness.

We were under it,
the lady in the moon’s hair
is chicory blue.

A belief in joy,
the luxury of warm grass,
us, here together.

I’ve had to rebuild
to keep getting up each day,
to still see beauty.

With all tender life,
our days of soft communion —
now comes good sailing.

for Mack (and Thoreau)

It’s how I’m alive,
looking at the morning sky,
writing about you.

The sudden greening
this spring happens without you —
where you walked and ran.

Soft-eyed in the sun,
it’s not too much to say that
we had everything.

Early and awake,
we were out in the wet grass,
finches lit with song.