WALKING THE DOG

Snow in the pass, and more to come

for the next five days. Grandkids' skis

all need wax. New books, and Hopkins

anxious before his vows, promises

no more poetry, will burn his notebooks.

My brother who grieves his wife's passing

by walking her dogs, tells me of the widow

across the street, 90 and alone, how

she walks her dog with her walker.

Every day she does this. He calls today

in tears. A fight between the dogs.

Her dog in bad shape. An artery.

It's all she has, he says, this dog.

And the dog doesn't make it.

She tells my brother, Now

I go to bed alone again.

A weather front closes mountain passes.

Inscape and instress in Hopkins,

Holiness grounds itself in God's creation.

My brother on the phone, Now! Now!

Jim Bodeen

27 January 2018