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

GREAT UNCLE AUGUST AND US

Great-uncle August
peers out of the family tintype much
too seriously for a young boy.

Is he searching the darkness
out beyond the flash and smoke,
out here where we are yet unborn?

Probably the stiffer wool of Sunday
knee-pants itches to obsession
and his good boots pinch.

There are things he’d rather be doing
than holding still, staring at the birdie.
But this is what it takes to make a picture.

It is important. Momentous.
Archival. You can tell
because nobody smiles.

Once the posing’s done, there will be
loosening of buttons, ties, laughter
and lemonade out on the porch.

Great-uncle August’s eyes will
maybe twinkle then. There might be hugs.
This is the part we’ll never see.
.
.
GREAT UNCLE AUGUST