My nearest neighbor
is out early this morning
walking her old dog who acts like a pup
because the rain has stopped momentarily
and the sun’s come out.
He runs bounding between rows of sugar beets
forgetting he is old
and has arthritis, ignorant of ailments
and demise.
His ears lift and fall with sounds
she doesn’t hear.
He runs because the morning light burns
like sulphur through the clouds.
Maybe later he will ache
and she will lay him on a rug in front of a fire.
But for now he stretches
all his bones as far as they will go
in the morning’s yellow wedge of light.
Keli
Stafford lives in Oregon
with her husband and children. Her poetry has most recently appeared or is
forthcoming in Whiskey Island Magazine,
Caesura, The Superstition Review, 2River View, and the Columbia Review.
Return