Comments Inbox
| |
About This Poem
On Watching Fur Fly
This breezy day outside the truckers’ Gas ‘n Go,
I brush my doggie's hair of fine white strands-
some short, some long-
all seeming to remove themselves either separately
or as small fur "cliques,“
each one intent on acts of random abdication.
They float up and drift away;
some get stuck in crevices of man's inventions,
their journeying cut short.
Others voyage upwards - and how do they end up?
Snatched by larks? Brought back to earth?
Are they made into some strange nesting fabric
that shelters birdlings squabbling for a worm?
Do some strands travel farther till they touch with eagles' peaks
and then settle themselves in mountain hollows?
Do other strays make their way to other cities or states
to land on asphalt, snow or desert sand?
I rarely see a canine hair anywhere except inside my house
or in houses of the folks like me with pets.
Surely escaped hairs and clumps lie in rest in numerous sundry parts of this world!
Are there some of them still wafting through sky
while humans on the ground below,
sensitive to fur of kindly beasts,
wheeze and sneeze, eyes watering, from unseen hairs?
Imagine this. . .
perhaps . . .their journey has an end in some far off place
where every tiny piece instinctively collects arriving mates;
then laid by magic hands side by side,
they await the day when all God's creatures,
man and beast alike,
reunite with particles once lost.
What a wonder it would be
to see my shaggy Eskimo in lion-like magnificence,
all hair restored to bushiness-
and marvel of all marvels!
In bodies of perfection,
we’d all of us have need to shed no more!
|
|
|