mmmmm poem time


Weep for what little things could make them glad.
– Robert Frost, “Directive”

the large collie
who lives in the red house
at the end of my daily run
is happy,
happy to see me
even now,
in February –
a month of low skies
and slowly melting snow.

His yard
has turned almost
entirely to mud –
but so what?

as if to please me,
he has torn apart
and scattered
a yellow plastic bucket
the color of forsythia
or daffodils . . .

And now,
in a transport
of cross-eyed
muddy ecstasy,
he has placed
his filthy two front paws
on the top pipe
of his sagging cyclone fence –

drooling a little,
his tail
wagging furiously,
until finally,
as if I were God’s angel himself –

with news of the Resurrection,
I give him a biscuit

Which is fine with Melvin
who is wise,
by whole epochs
of evolution,
beyond his years.

what you can get,
that’s his motto . . .

And really,
apropos of bliss,
and the true rapture,
what saint
could tell us half as much?

Even as he drops
back down
into the cold
dog-shit muck
he’ll have to live in
every day
for weeks on end perhaps
unless it freezes . . .

whining now,
as I turn away
to leave him there

the same today
as yesterday

one of the truly wretched
of this earth
whose happiness
is almost more
than I can bear.

peace and love. I’ll write more later.


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