DOG DAYS (7)
The final poem of Dog Days week is dedicated to Holly, our little Border terrier, and was written during the last years of her life when her longevity and devotion had earned her the right to occasionally snooze on our bed.
HOLLY
Waking, my hand falls on warm fur:
a small rib cage rising, falling,
as breath goes on doing its work.
We are connected, she to me,
by synchronous breathing. By love,
on my part: on hers, obedience.
Now fifteen years, I hold her close,
gently as when she was a pup,
skin-and-bones, promising nothing.
A good dog, demanding only
a clean, warm bed, small kindnesses.
Fortune, grant her sleep, untroubled.
HOLLY
Waking, my hand falls on warm fur:
a small rib cage rising, falling,
as breath goes on doing its work.
We are connected, she to me,
by synchronous breathing. By love,
on my part: on hers, obedience.
Now fifteen years, I hold her close,
gently as when she was a pup,
skin-and-bones, promising nothing.
A good dog, demanding only
a clean, warm bed, small kindnesses.
Fortune, grant her sleep, untroubled.
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