Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Mornings At Seven

My old dog
Lies on the rug beside my bed
A SableandSnow tapestry

He is close to me as he can be nowdays.
His legs no longer allowing him access to my bed.

Softly, his legs run in silent rhythm in dream fields of cats and sheep.
He sleeps the sleep of old dogs
And dreams the dreams of young pups.

He carries the memories of me as a younger woman.
I remember the strong and fluid moves of a dog in his prime.
Together we grow older, and our slowing down is an opportunity to Reflect.

I stir under my bedcovers.
His royal head lifts to meet my eyes.
Then drops again between his paws
Neither of us are ready to emerge from the cocoon of sleep and rest.

My bare feet touch the floor beside him.
He rolls to his back, legs askew, whole face smiling.
"What are we gonna do today?" he asks with Joy and Delight at my attention.

I stand, creakily, reach for my robe.

And the slippers under his paws.

Yoga-stretch to stroke his redgold head.

He, too, struggles to arise, old hips uncooperative and unpredictable.

It is no longer a race for the door.  I win every time now.
I leave him behind  to convince his muscles to perform again for him another day.

And my heart remembers a flying Collie.

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