February Evening

A poem about a dog, and time, and love

Photo by Regine Tholen on Unsplash

Daisy deposits herself
with a sigh
on the spot beside the stove
that she likes.

She is here because I am.
She rests her snout upon
her right paw, slightly offset
so that her mouth
meets the floor.

Her eyes are closed, or nearly.
Heat radiates from
the side of the stove,
which I hope soothes
her old hips.

She limps every morning now
and eyes the steps
down to the yard
with trepidation.

After some
hesitation, she sort of tumbles
down the stairs, letting
her front paws navigate
while her back legs
helplessly pedal
the air behind her.

I sit cross-legged
on the kitchen floor,
missing the chipped white stool
that once stood,
when the floor was still linoleum.