Wolfie's Last Christmas Eve... 2012
Patches of snow on scab rock.
Wolfie, in late afternoon,
slightly doped on a painkiller,
pain of bone cancer,
paused east of the house...
stared off... into the abyss...
amber-brown eyes sad with love... coming loss....
No snow this Christmas Eve.
On rough ground out back,
a young spruce tree
rises from volcanic soil
enriched with Wolfhound cremains.
If I drive shrub steppe all night,
will Wolfie's ghost
ride the car's back seat,
will I feel the weight of his great head
on my left shoulder, will he say,
in his little-boy-voice,
Stay awake... take us home?
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