Awake with half my brain
to your sadness, woe
a sea you cannot cross,
cannot rest in for fear
of letting the mirror
of heavy water
pull you under.
Wings that will not
land. Not this day.
Awake I carry you
with half my brain,
one part in the sun
the other wonders
exactly where you are
flying, what thermal
might lift you,
waking or dreaming.
The bird that mates
Self-Portrait with Clair
She’s number seven, a good dog in a long life of years.
Each new one finding home the day the last one dies.
Friends say too soon, grieve the ones that disappear,
give each their due, not privy to how hard I cry.
It’s not tail wags or tricks or snores at night,
it’s how I need that known quotient of fur.
I know as well as I see black and white
that the new dog does not come to transfer
feelings from old to new. She comes as light
to a soul in dodgy despair, a child of loneliness
eager to nose in deep, give a hand caress
to a mute, receptive head eager to be liked.
I bring home a faithful creature I need
for me, not her, such a self-serving deed.
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet looking into winter’s dark months, prime time to write about the vagaries of wind and relationships. Her work appears widely in journals and anthologies. For more, visit her website.