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Interlude
Two
years upon a shelf his ashes sat,
incarcerated in a silver urn.
He'd come to her when life had been unkind;
he'd helped to ease the pain inside her soul.
Down
through the years, as love eluded her,
the poodle kept her heart from sinking low;
he filled the void left by the man she lost;
the poodle never ventured from her side.
She'd
run with him
each day beneath
the trees;
then, shaded
from the sun,
she'd read a
book.
He'd chase the
squirrels in
playful puppy
style,
his frisking
tail a symbol of
delight.
Sometimes
he'd stop to
rest and lick
her hand;
she'd pat his
head and softly
ask,
"Enough?"
When time had
robbed him of
his zest to run,
she'd snuggle
him and sit
beneath the
trees.
The
day that he
succumbed she
seemed to cope
but said that
she must always
keep him near --
"This home
is all he's ever
known," she
said,
"and I'll
feel better
knowing that
he's
close."
Today
I saw the mound
beneath the
tree;
I watched the
chatting
creatures
scampering,
then suddenly,
as they
skittered up the
trunk,
I thought I saw
her poodle
running free.
I
thanked my Lord
and laid an
apple bloom
atop my
daughter's tiny
poodle's grave,
and in my heart
I knew without a
doubt
that time had
healed and
finally freed
them both.
Copyright
© 1996 Ruth
Gillis
Previously
published in the
May 1996
issue of Poet's
Review,
and the Fall
1996 issue of
The
Candlelight
Poetry Journal
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