His name was Frisky, my dog.
One day visible, then not. Around him snow fell,
but over him green remained, wet, young,
and shaped like a coffin.
At fifteen I laid him in the snow, and walked away.
“There will be no more sadness” at end of the
winter, they said.
Until then, the house would live bone cold;
shutter against fog, mourning the one who
carried its secrets.
And the cries heard were faint; like white wings
following a grain plough, when by stars decree,
my time at his side complete.
