Green Dog

In certain lights, at certain times, my dog is green.

She casts a glossy dark glow from spring buds and new grass as

she saunters across the young forest floor.

The four canadian geese up Highlawn each morning

sun touched the eastern peaks.

It goes so quickly. Life changes occur- we lose some

to that cruel mocking question-

Others are born. Hips, knees, shoulders are replaced

after months of winter shoveling and recreation.

Even so, young white scilla push up through gravel in the drive

delicate as paper yet bursting with energy to travel through the toughest

rock and stone and appear dancing in the soft spring breeze.

Though, I know these things.

I know the dog is sometimes green. I am amazed again.

And want nothing more than her soft cool snout upon my palm

as we rest once more by the curving wall on the hill.