Poetry Thursday

5am I wake up, rouse the dogs and we head to the woods. I want to blow out their energy. Within minutes of exploding out the car doors, both disappear. Lucy for 10 minutes, Silas for 15. It's not even 6am and already I'm yelling. I hate this. Hate their disappearing, hate my yelling, hate feeling powerless.

"I can't do this," I cry.

I've already said my morning prayers, turning my day over to God. "Is this what I get?" I ask God. "Lost dogs and more anxiety? Fuck that!"

Eventually they emerge from the woods, separately. Silas takes off again. I march Lucy back to the car, lock her in, and with leash in hand set off to find Silas. The good news and the bad news is that he knows this area well. My shouting echoes through the pines, letting him know where I am while he remains oblivious to my need to know where he is.

Another 20 minutes pass and finally I hear the jingling tags of his collar. Finally I see him walking slowly towards me, exhausted. He lays down in a big deep mud puddle and drink-chomps water. On goes the leash. I'm so mad and so relieved I can't talk to either of them. Home at last, I lock us in the bedroom and within minutes we're under covers in our spots -- Lucy in the upper corner between two pillows, Silas spooned against me -- asleep.

I'm tired of my voice. Tired of their barking. So, I've said as little as possible today. Lucy and Silas are tired after their morning expedition, so they've been quiet too. I keep reaching for silence. Keep reaching for solace.

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?
by Mary Oliver

There are things you can’t reach. But
you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,
out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing
from the unreachable top of the tree.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
as though with your arms open.

And thinking: maybe something will come, some
shining coil of wind,
or a few leaves from any old tree –
they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth.
Everything in the world
comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially.

Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake.
Like goldfinches, little dolls of gold
fluttering around the corner of the sky

of God, the blue air.

(Photo by ~K~.)