A DOG IN THE GRASS

Serene she poses
still as the stone lions
flanking the stone steps
of the public library

just an old black dog
couchant among dandy yellow weeds
and volunteer forget-me-nots
of blessed-virgin blue

who seems to take for granted
all the grassy sweetness
that is possible in spring.

There ought to be a picture of
this moment warmed by sun
faintly redolent of lilac,
gurgling with matins of
a hidden mourning dove—

it should be digitally stunned
for keeps, held like a pungent
stem of timothy between the teeth—

with a camera one could save it
in that little one-eyed crypt
that neither hears nor sees but
registers and stores as holy
relics to recall what’s dead.

That being said, the trick is
to stand camera-less
within a spot of sun
just looking, listening, and
smell the lilac, taste the timothy

as moment fades
into another moment— stay
and watch the dog get up,
shake her whole skin, raise
snout to sniff, then trot away.
.
.
A DOG IN THE GRASS