He cries when you sees you,
low whimpers of delight.
His frailness is endearing
if it doesn’t keep you up at night.
He rubs his head against you
he murmurs adoration
When you scratch behind his ears
his tail waves in celebration.
His love is pure and when he looks
so deeply in your eyes
You know these daily trysts
will last until he dies.
.
.
(and if he’s as old as my boy is, that may not be as long as one would hope).
I wake
to feel you lying
stretched along
the length of me.
I reach out my hand
and find not flesh
but fur.
You have been replaced
by canine devotion.
.
.
.
.
This is an interesting example of ‘living poetry.’ People ask how I can come up with a poem every day, and I say I see them everywhere. This morning, completely dazed with sleep, this happened, I muzzily composed this poem as I reflected on the surprise, and then fell back to sleep. When I finally got up, there it was, ready to share.
Your brown eyes
watch me with an intensity
of adoration that makes my heart glow.
Whenever I come home,
you greet me at the door,
quivering in delight.
You follow me throughout the house
set your head across my knees,
gaze longingly into my eyes.
I scratch your ears and you sigh,
with a satisfaction that trembles
up your spine.
“Such a good boy,” I say,
and your tail thumps
in lazy agreement.
.
Shawn L. Bird 