morning poem/mourning poem

morning poem (mourning poem)

I ran on the beach for the first time
with my puppy yesterday,
all new and frisking lithely in the foam,
like another beginning.
Like the earliest hour of morning,
like this blessed, sky-gilt spring
which endlessly effused its green and tender joy,
nourished by what died the year before.

Jezibel's last spring. Just now, on my computer
a photo flashed into the screen, filling
the whole screen;
it was glowing morning, and the sea
foamed green and pale as yesterday's,
and Fenris stood in the waves like yesterday.

Dog Stories

Little Rogue of Earthsea was
a Shetland Sheepdog puppy who I raised
within my pack of wolf-blooded huskies.
At play, the three were fierce, all flashing teeth
and rocketing high-speed chases,
followed by jubilant full-strength collisions
and more teeth.
The little sheltie would rocket behind them,
fierce with passion,
fully engaged.
The wolves, benevolent
and fond of her, ignored her completely.
But it was enough.

Her mask came grizzled
when she regrew her winter coat this year,
though it shone as deep and rich
a sable as it ever did, and her eye
flashed brightly when I saw her
curled together on her pillow
with the sighthound puppy, conspiring:
ah, she says, I can see
from the shape of you, your eye and how you run
how you run and bite, that you are
of the killing kind, that you are
of the bright-eyed white-toothed ones who
run endlessly and bury your sharp teeth
playfully in your sister's mane
or in red power when you taste the prey.
I have no patience for these gentle sheepdogs.
Let me show you, then, about the wolves
and how we ran together, through the waves
and over mountains
when all the world was new.