I went out into the back yard
this morning, my reason, to look
into the potting shed where my dog
Maya slept on warm afternoons.
She’d lie in the cool shade
of ivy draped walls, where
shadows pooled and fallen blossoms lay
about her, chin resting on front paws,
large quiet golden eyes
following my every move.
While I watered flowering plants
she’d snooze, almost asleep
as a mockingbird did its best
to drive her away from the nest
it was building in an overhead tree,
beak plucking fur from Maya’s scruff
and moving away just fast enough
to avoid snapping jaws and certain death ~
but Maya’s came first.
Now the corner is fallen into ruin,
its walls leaning like an old man
on a park bench, a fallen cane and glove
at his feet, precarious, about to topple,
the sagging wooden deck eaten by termites
and stained by years of sorry neglect
as more pressing chores kept me
inside and struggling through tears
with fears over another’s inevitable parting.
I see now how things change in this strange,
deliciously painful mystery I so love.