Robert Wrigley: Narrating Night to the New Puppy Gladys
These are clouds and those are stars,
while over there, the headlights of cars.
Up from the east ridge the full moon’s rise
reflected on the west in a whitetail’s eyes.
Those are shadows and in the distance rain
to drive down the dust till the dust comes again.
Far off lightning, and momentarily thunder,
over there for a while but soon hereunder.
Notice how the breeze is becoming a wind
that winds up nothing, having merely been.
But more dark arrives as the power goes down,
and all lights vanish from here to town,
and the fridge where your food is quits its hum,
the music strangles, the radio’s dumb.
You stretch and yawn, give your ears a flap
then sigh and circle back down on my lap.
O pup, may you never be lost or bark at birds,
may you see only kindness from hands or in words.
And now here it comes, the end of a poem,
where we are your humans and this is your home.
Copyright 2021 Robert Wrigley
Robert Wrigley‘s books include Box (Penguin, 2017). He lives in Idaho.
My oh my, Bob, I like that one lot, so startlingly seizing and planting the ectoplasm of living livid loving mystery a puppy’s eager hope and faith excites and plants in the heart. That’s quite a photo, too–true to our times. Thank you, Bob! Carry on, and be well.
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