I stroke her chest. She smiles, and veils her eyes
to amber slits in pupils dark as dream.
Fingers on fur - sparks, static. Old dogs rise
to memory, living still, or so they seem.
And yet it's just my present dog. Some say,
only Man lives in God's immortal scheme,
while dogs must die at end of Dog's short day.
She smiles. See how her muzzle's turning gray.
I stroke her chest. Her heart in mortal guise
still opens doors. She'll find a passageway.
Taylor Graham
Placerville, USA
poetspiper@att.net
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