Smokey's Ashes

Bringing home Smokey's ashes
in a plastic bag
along with an imprint
of his paw
splayed more than I remember
on soft, unbaked clay.

Memento mori
receiving light
from an east-facing window.
What lessons to be learned
day after day?

Losing Smokey

My little wayfarer
you are released
from all that is not you
going now
to where I can
no longer hold you
my little one
I hope you can hear me.

In the Wake of Finishing Proust

They finally came
the last words
which happened to be
on the meditation of Time.
I repeated the lines
not wanting to leave
this palpitating world.

It is a loss
not so much of the characters
wrought by a wonderfully deft hand
but of a world
made intelligible
by becoming my own.