It’s hard to write about hard things.
Like the dog I saw today.
Already a ghost.
He walked like he was in a pony show, ambling dressage.
The spherical joints of his hips were exposed, and
they looked like drumsticks sun-dried on a park bench.
It’s hard to write about sad things.
The soft ears of his puppyhood still retained the auburn fluff of chasing squirrels.
He will die soon, that was clear.
And I wondered about the nearby gardener that blew leaves from the grass.
With his machine he blew the leaves away so that the grass wouldn’t die under the crisp weight of fall.
Let’s watch the leaves bury the grass; the roots of the trees demolish the pavement; and the vines twist to the eaves.
It won’t make the hard things easier; or the heart break less.
But maybe we’ll all see the pained ghost and in our hands we’ll lift his soft snout and bring our foreheads together;
we’ll feel the bones of each other.