Today,
oh hell yes
I walked the dog.
I hate to call her a dog.
She’s a spirit. Born pedigreed
and cast into a chamber of horrors.
Starved and flogged and neglected,
terrorized by drunken gun shooters and
thieving scoundrels until rescued days from
death and now here with me, the perfect
companion, hesitant as she is around men,
but perfect to this day and me out here
in the cold and wind and snow and ice.
How perfect for one another and I don’t ever
call her a dog without regret. More like a princess
or a regal queen or a guardian of what she loved
and may find again in me and out there we went,
walking. Me taking her for a walk and she walking
me. Isn’t it that way so often with love? Yes and oh hell
yes there are walks the drives and pathways, but we
came upon an open field covered by unmarked snow,
glistening in the late afternoon sun toward which we walked
and I said, “Come on, girl. Let’s go,” and off the path
we plunged into the uninterrupted white. Oh I remembered
fields I owned and paths I made and I said, “Do you remember?
Do you remember when we walked these wonderlands?” And
of course she never walked them with me, but suddenly
every dog I ever owned came with me there in her and she knew
and we both realized suddenly it all happened again and again as often
as we dare take the path no one else has taken.
It’s a simple equation. She understands. She looked around
at me then took her confidence and plunged ahead.
I understand.
We left our mark upon the frozen ground
the miracle of twinkling perfection.
It’s a simple question.
Do you?
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