His nose to the sun
in the warm November grass —
it seeps, seeps, seeps in.

End of the day walk,
acorns falling on our heads,
we’re finding our way.

Sunday sun comes in,
he fills his nose with the breeze,
my dog is content.

The look that he gives
on walks, in forests, green grass
that says contentment.

Our August shadows
are cast long in the hot grass,
my warm dog and me.

Her name, Carina,
the dog at the gallery
just north of Good Hart.

Fur warmed by the sun,
red clover and cinquefoil,
ecstatic grasses.

These days in the grass,
I miss them when I’m in them,
life taking in life.

And what’s my purpose,
bright sky over the river,
clouds lift all day long.

Birds migrating in,
different songs in each tree
and both my dog’s ears.

To keep what’s vital,
our feet walking on this earth,
stardust on stardust.

Tender to tender—
we walked today in the cold,
now dreaming of it.

My dog under a
tree holding on to its leaves —
my birthday today.

Other than birdsong,
only the sound of the leaves
in our thankful ears.

The peace of morning—
my dog napping in the sun,
poems in his ears.

Friday on the bridge,
we see the flowing, blooming,
fantastical world.

In the late morning,
poetry in his soft ears,
songs of birds seep in.

The world to explore,
my dog, connected to me,
nose in all flowers.

In the greening field—
peace follows him everywhere,
my dog’s gentle steps.

Not needing poems,
letting April warm his fur,
my dog finds sunlight.