I pick up the worn shovel, handle frosty
and slick. I feed it
to the ground by the mimosa tree
and press hard with my weight on one foot.
The soil yields beautifully.
I know very soon, this sacred ground
will receive her of the dark gold hair, the bleached
muzzle, the eyes once alive as obsidian light,
that dog-breath smile.
The old girl is shaking this morning
and cannot rise. I
help lift her back end.
Her feet splay out on the floor. Her eyes are worried,
even afraid. I caress
her bent head
leaning into my leg.
“I know, girl, I know.
Soon. Will it be
today?” I don’t want to
answer that question yet,
but here I am, excavating the ground
between the vegetable garden and my favorite tree,
envisioning motherly soil holding her wasting
frame close, the swirls of her hair trimmed by fallen
pine needles, her bones and blood that loved us so much
that she will forgive me and forgive me
for bringing that love to a
peaceful
close.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022
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