Friday, December 28, 2012

And then Ginger died


            Maybe if we haven’t degenerated as

            H. G. Wells foretold, we might build

            Ships or worlds to escape the collision

            With Andromeda, and maybe Susan

            Won’t actually die though she can only

            Be on her feet for short periods of time

            Which casts a sufficient pall,

            But reduced as it is to prose

            As it invariably is and that

            Not quite what I meant . . .. 

            Sure we can talk in prose.

            Most of us do, but when something

            I wrote quite right is stripped

            Like a triptych of its illumination,

            I may lean forward and look out

            My study window to where Ginger

            Used to spend her time, a little time

            As it happens, nine years and five

            Months.  Sage and Duffy search about,

            Wanting to turn her into prose,

            But she will never be again.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I so hoped it wasn't so . My life has been full of dogs I love that others keep with them. Their stories and lives a part of my joy. Each one if ever need be could come to us and live with us in their forever home away from home. We've shared stories of our furry kids for years- their puppy hoods and learning - their quirks and joys. How cruel that that miserable 2012 could still at the last minute take away our lovely one, the evil year of so many deaths and losses and near misses, Her passing is a warning - - time lock of attention on my two. They are slower and more willing to curl up with me - and the telltale gray faces have begun. What will I do. So sad,