Tuesday, January 21, 2014



The old dog stands in the falling snow.

Safe in a fenced yard 
he thinks of deep silent woods
filled with smells of deer, elk and squirrel.

He remembers jeep rides
into the mountains,
full of twists and turns,
his barks echoing
off of canyon walls.

He raises his muzzle to the sky
in memory of howls
sung to the Western stars,
when he was young and strong.

He wanders the boundary
of the fenced in space
pausing by the gate
that leads to
out there.

He remembers walks with his humans,
playing fetch with his red ball,
wonderful smelly rolls in cow patties,
and chasing the cats.

He heads through the dog door,
stands ready for a treat,
and makes his way to the couch,
turning round and round,
he sleeps and dreams of big horn sheep. 

















I handed you my virgin heart
unbroken, wide open, whole.

You took it
not understanding
 the gift I gave.

You were careless
because you were afraid
and did not know
how fragile love could be.

Now you have handed it back.
Broken. Shattered.
Covered in scars from
attempts to mend
that which cannot be repaired.

I take it.
This bruised, battered
thing.
And I hide it deep within;
out of sight,
out of reach.

Knowing now,
I will never re-gift
my imperfect heart.