The dog’s ears, furred, furled,
fitting both palms
like home-knit childhood mittens
on a snowbound day, a day
for chicken soup
with noodles, rice, the green tang
of innocent celery, finely diced.
A day for Harriet the Spy
or Nancy Drew,
a mound of covers,
and this pert-eared dog on top,
listening constantly
for words promising things,
the faint but keenly studied evidence
of a pined-for and despaired-of
return. In the meantime
I rub her velvet ears, and they in turn
perfectly smooth my ruffled feathers,
settle into calm my rocking boat.
image: Regal Animal Hospital
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