He laid down
beside the brittle
golden rods,
queen’s lace and
wheat stalks.
Beside the seasons’
ravaged field,
the crocuses just up
in a warmth of sun,
he laid down for good
pure and simple,
my golden dog.
The needle did its work there
in stillness thread;
the blue veins course
no more,
though it seemed I heard
his soul rush
when nothing came before.
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