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Mad Dog
It was grandma’s last winter.
I watched her hurry outside
to split enough wood so her old kitchen stove
would burn through the new storm
she felt gathering
along the horizon,
its first eiderdown already afloat
on the twilight
settling over her white garden.
From nowhere
a dog tormented by visions
plunged through the drifts
and laid ahold of her leg.
She hacked half through its neck
and crawled to the house,
dragging the axe in her blood-trail
lest she lose it in the snow.
She bandaged her wound at the sink.
My breath frosted the pane,
and rubbing a hole
I peered through the gloom
at the scarlet peony
blooming ‘round the dog’s matted head.
The thickening whorl of snow
gently tousled its fur,
tucking it in
until spring.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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