Black Dog In Muddy Weather
For Quinn, my dog
He hops out the boot of my car like he always has,
thrashes his thick club of tail at the cold air, warning
that joy is on the way.
At some point in life I forgot how to play, but never him,
blessed angel who warms my bed and cleans my plate,
they didn't watch the gate when this one got out of heaven.
Miracles occur, and this one is mine, and he trots over there
to sniff dirt or let a stranger stroke his head,
paws disgusting with February caked in the grooves.
I don't care, I don't care, I simply don't care;
if I can watch a creature love the idea of life,
let him roll in whatever he pleases, it's of no consequence to me.
Sam Woodbridge
Food for Thought, 6 February 2025
Prompt poem: Black Rook In Rainy Weather, by Sylvia Plath