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The Old Dog


The old dog is dead.
Laid down its burden
Along with its head
And died.

I cried, for I loved her
For all of her barking,
Her messes, her nose thrust
Upward into my waiting hand.

How grand she was as a pup,
Rolling in filth to stink;
Tireless she ran to fetch
The next thing she would chew.

She grew to fat and placid,
Slow and full of love
Faithful and true she would lie
Close by my side as I worked.

Now I work, digging her grave
Her body close beside me
For the last time.

The old dog is buried now
Deep within the loam
Just beneath her favorite spot
Where the winter sun warmed
And the trees shaded in summer.

Perhaps a new tree will one day grow
From some acorn dropped
By squirrel once chased, roots twisting
Through ribs, skull filled with dust.

She would like that.



next up previous contents
Next: Let Us Go Up: Longer Poems Previous: Longer Poems   Contents
Robert G. Brown 2005-12-14