Today's poem is by Lana Hechtman Ayers

Howe Farm Dog Park, December
       

At the click of leash release,
the big dog runs off,
disappears into the woods,
the smaller dog stays close by
my bootheels
sniffing at the smorgasbord
of dog park smells.

All I can identify
is a scent of damp,
something like wet wool
tinged with the tang
of pine smoke.

It's so bitter cold a day,
the mud is solid,
crunches underfoot and the late
afternoon air has a gray/blue
cast that makes me want
to forget context, forget words.

Little dog and I head toward the path
of spindly Douglas fir,
bared alder, cedars hung with rust.

She runs in front of me on the trail,
takes the lead by a yard,
her tail become a quarter-time
metronome as she surely selects
an acceptable clutch of brown
leaves to piddle on,
then bounces ahead.

Dogs are satisfied
with earth—
its animal markings,
satisfied to deposit
fragrant evidence of their own
existence,
however transient.

This year is closing down.
What I lost I will
never regain.

Big dog comes suddenly
bounding toward us,
panting bog breath,
all tongue and canine smile.

This is a good life,
she seems to be saying
in dog language,
a good life,
even when it's frozen
and overcast,
even when the forecast is
more of the same.

Copyright © 2024 Lana Hechtman Ayers All rights reserved
from The Autobiography of Rain
Fernwood Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission