I dreamed an old dog slipped off his leash

to romp with the geese down by the pond,

but in some trick of grief’s desire, the scene

shifted and my mentor, real as skin and bone,

tilled his garden for the next season.

He was the kind of man who would save

hatchlings from the tines of the tiller,

nudge his fledglings into flight. My daughter

had sent me his obituary the day before.

It read like a staccato riff: born, lived, died; dear wife

relegated to one paltry last line. Am I selfish

to want a line of my own? What I was to him

would fit between commas, white font in white space;

and he to me, a past that’s always present.

It is late afternoon in late October. A dog

gives up his spot in the sun to walk with me.

He is a funny thing, chasing shadows

in the slanting light.