Wednesday, November 5, 2014


When the leaf falls in the collapsing din 
of summer light, it doesn’t crawl along 
the ground, lame in heavy breathing for months. 
The leaf lets go of mother’s hand and floats
gently to her grave. Not my old sweet Lab 
who teeters into hers, bowels and backside--
all her senses--in disarray.  I wonder. 
Is it kind to let her find her own end? 
To let her sleep all her days, 
to crawl crippled to her water bowl? 
This loyal friend who trusts 
herself to me as to her own mother. 
She'd follow me unflinching to the vet, 
her eyes allegiant as she slips into that other sleep.
And what would she be missing? 
Sleep is sleep. 
Only her dreams would end.

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