Souls make snow-angels in the dog bed, where Ginger curls up by the fire. And after she’s gone, the mind still sees after-images of her there and has to check itself, for time: For what time we’re in, now?
How it wafts in and out of the windows and bends by the direction of the wind: How your work is called timeless once it escapes the banality of the eras, the tug of gravity that comes with the times.
The moon doesn’t remember what day it is but keeps to its own cycle, now in a final resting place on its side, a silver cup of an outstretched palm holding the rest, reminder we’re not alone in the dark of the night.
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Categories: death
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