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.
