When bed is a tomb,
and blankets are bricks,
and sunlight will burn,
but darkness won't fix
the absence of bloom.
My stomach does churn,
wide awake and still
eyes seeking a friend
to aid gaps and till--
Spores fraid to be ferns.
My aid apprehends--
His footsteps like breath--
The spirits who haunt,
puffing out his chest,
blows a mighty gale.
I had lain there fraught,
eyes shut in great fear,
til torments abate
and my hero near'd--
wreathed in my detente.
His walk, a great gait!
Air of triumph coasts.
A great quadruped,
eyes queerly his host,
I must stare and wait.
His hair, toe to head,
Ubiquitous coat!
Fur shines with a gleam,
his body the moat--
curls to my cold dread.
His presence, serene!
Utters not a word.
Cast demons repel
back into cold earth--
My mind is wiped clean.
And so it befell:
Silence of great sympathies.
Dogs can teach us how silence can be our greatest of sympathies.
