Endless Lawn VII

Eevee sticking her tongue out when I tried to take her picture.

This poem was written about one of my constant muses: my dog Eevee. She is willfull. She is rude. She is clever. She is kind. She is a complicated character. Complicated characters are my favorite.

For Eevee (I)

Here I thought she was

in the shade of the bower

while I was parking the machine

and removing my dusty leather gloves.

But ninety seconds later,

when I emerged

from the climate-controlled dark,

having moved quickly up the stairs

and down the hallway,

she was gone.

Her panlike legs move

quickly down the familiar path

toward pastures and mountains.

She wanders gleefully,

flaunting her recklessness

like a knight his mantle.

She hears me calling.

She knows her name.

But in this instant,

she is nameless.

Because the blades of grass

are nameless.

Because the words of men

are hollow.

Because the font of power

is bottomless,

endless,

infinite.

So when I seek her,

and eventually find her,

will she forgive me

for replacing her mantle

with a collar?

T. Evans, June 21