Lucy

Loyalty to ashes and love to dust--
Lucy died on a cool-sunned day
and a cold front followed with rain
to blanket her.
Every tap of October sticks on siding
makes me turn to look for the ghost
of her black toenails on the kitchen floor.
The first time, after, that I sat on the porch swing,
the toll of a restless collar bell
heralded the arrival of the cat
to claim Lucy's head's place on my lap--
ginger fur does not seem quite as soft
as her black, folded ears under my hand.
Every dinner's table scraps go unclaimed.
She was just a dog, after all,
but grief is grief
all the same.

September

September, two-faced
lunatic king of dying summer
dresses in bold, rich flowers--
purple Aster novae-angliae,
Queen Anne's Lace--
wields Goldenrod,
manic heat,
oppressive humidity.
Next moment,
out through calico blue
Chicory, Aster linariifolius,
fringed with white lashes,
 Aster dumosus, Mist Flower,
peers the benevolent dotard face
of September
sighing soft breezes,
humming insect songs.