1039: The Return
"The Return"
Robin Becker
At night he is returned to me---
a small dog with black eyes---
and his tongue stripes my face
pink, the color of his tender
underbelly. We laugh, we weep,
to find each other again.
Cobwebs shine bright as stars
in the forest. I kneel to feel
his fur against my skin, his satin ears,
the fine bones of his skull
returned to me.
In the Sangre de Cristo we run
through paintbrush and columbine.
I follow him into streams where small stones
glitter in his wake. Past larkspur and penstemon,
he fills the woods with his happiness.
When he lies down, I take him in my arms,
a small stillness returned to me, my everlasting stone.
A shovel is waiting. I dig, again, in the dark wood,
as this is my share, to dig and make a place for him
before the light divides us again.
Robin Becker
At night he is returned to me---
a small dog with black eyes---
and his tongue stripes my face
pink, the color of his tender
underbelly. We laugh, we weep,
to find each other again.
Cobwebs shine bright as stars
in the forest. I kneel to feel
his fur against my skin, his satin ears,
the fine bones of his skull
returned to me.
In the Sangre de Cristo we run
through paintbrush and columbine.
I follow him into streams where small stones
glitter in his wake. Past larkspur and penstemon,
he fills the woods with his happiness.
When he lies down, I take him in my arms,
a small stillness returned to me, my everlasting stone.
A shovel is waiting. I dig, again, in the dark wood,
as this is my share, to dig and make a place for him
before the light divides us again.