dizain for an old dog
When he’s gone, I’ll still hike the rock creek down
past a grassy meadow fringed by ghost-pine –
scrubby greenstone landscape, a bedrock crown.
At last I’ll reach the bridge where columbine
holds scent of summer like a trace design.
He’d read it to discover what had gone
this way – a stranger passing; doe with fawn.
I’d try to read his sunstone eyes, his gaze
of distances and breeze, of noon and dawn,
those gems more lasting than our wander-days.