Walking

You give it your all, you and your dog,

Alone, late Fall, together

In joyful agony

For both of you are old,

Both seek a lonesome

And artless fullness.

It’s empty the day ahead

The meaninglessness of sun

Following—or is it

The other way around,

Daylight beckoning,

Maybe the old Labrador

Will know, his black face

White muzzle

Probing among roots.

Aging is often without guile,

Straight, entire,

Written between lines.

He’s found black currants

Keen friend, picks one

With his teeth,

Drops it in your hand.

 

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