Sunday, July 31, 2011

the eyes

There's something in the eyes of a dying dog
that speaks of awareness, something beyond
the pain, weakness, and the dimming.
Perhaps I read more into those eyes than was
actually there - but I really don't think so.

the dying dog’s
labored breath
. . . winter’s leaves

His dark brown eyes had grown larger, fathomless,
as deep as a well holding all the mysteries of life
and impending death, eyes at once sad but knowing
he has been greatly loved and will be greatly missed.
Isn't that all any of us could ever hope for?

almost home
after walking my dying dog –
a rock in my shoe

For my beloved dog Little Bud, who died of cancer - gone, but as they
say, not forgotten.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

regretting nothing

warmth of a summer regretting nothing

I don't often try one-line haiku


our old house . . .
the sad turn from love
to memories

Something from the past


Saturday, July 2, 2011

the cherry tree

summer evening . . .
the cherry tree
ripe with promise


swirl of dark clouds
above the prairie
. . . awaiting prognosis

A haiku written as my wife
awaited a melanoma screen -
turned out fine


her morning air
. . . not of haughtiness
but of gardenias