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All Too Soon, All Too Long After
The bowls for water and food are empty.
The toys are still, in the places they were left.
The newspapers, once freshly spread, are not soiled.
No accidents on the wood floors to accidentally step into;
no sound of nails on those floors in eager hurry.
Time, itself, has taken a sharp swerve:
the avoided, postponed, invevitable
has become the blank parenthesis
that no joyous, or warning, bark will fill again.
Across that small earthen mound,
at the far edge of the back yard,
cold autumn winds sweep dessicated leaves,
and other debris,
beneath skies of leaden gray
that the absent sun seems to have abandoned.
Starward
