Old dogs die, grass & flowering forbs live on

I just came across this old poem that appeared in the Mountain Democrat three years ago. Weed-eater (“my morning meditation”) keeps me busy this time of year – battery’s just about recharged, time to hit the field again.

One April Morning

Among grandfather blue oaks, I put down my weed-eater. So much wild growing green! A shaft of sunlight strikes a crook of branches where, when we first came here, swift-hawk nested high above our earthbound comings and goings. Farther, the R.I.P. yard, graves of dogs no longer with us. Our old search partners, and one pup who died too young; plus a princely rogue forgiven long ago for his misdeeds. Is there a sign, an insight here? Memory of departed dogs – like spring grass – returns again, again, again.

It’s time, resume

my mowing. April grass

keeps growing green.

~ Taylor Graham