Riley

The gentle thaw came, and I with it.

Geese with waxy wings flew purposefully home, despite my chill.

Tired,

back hurting,

 I hunched miserably on a petite boulder rising up like a throne

Imagining you curled--

Sleepy--

 like a cat beneath my feet.

It’s not that I wish you had lived longer,

so that old age could wrap around your delicate ankles

And drag you down slowly

But I begrudge this new awakening—insisting that these birds,

This sky,

The necessary din of rain onto wet, steaming horsehair

Should have been Yours.

Nothing can prepare for the bloom of fear

where there should be flowers.

No one can describe loss more eloquently than your cowslip ears—

forelock fluttering peacefully

heart overwhelmed with the thrill of a dewy canter.

Still, I’ve tripped along with a fondness for things not mine:

Clover,

Sunshine,

Youth

Soaked through with the guilt that today, I brought you nothing

Tomorrow I won’t come

And that day, you were Alone.

At least,

(I try)

At least my heart still beats, though now more rapidly.

Goosebumps rise like molehills on my knees.

Surely this pile of dirt and rocks isn’t you

Surely it isn’t your laughing eyes,

your quivering flanks.