Slowing

Old dog probably has begun her long
Dying well. I watch her sleeping by the fire.
She still lopes to her spots around
The place; once in a while she even heads to the
Pond. She has decided she's
Not interested in going outside
When it's so cold, and under duress,
Either she goes out on her own
Or we give her
A little directional.
The last couple of days, though,
Morning rays warm the wooden
Floorboards on the side porch, and
In late afternoon the patio begins
To heat from western sun.
She trots out toward the back,
Her old woodpile.

It's something close to gift
That I am watching her for how to do this,
Integrity, autonomy, she
Tells me where she is and
Watches me, so I watch her.
All of this is all beginning, all of this is
Ending. In the middle all of this
Is grey-blast neutral,
Passing from one resolve into another.
Meanwhile, glory! Creation's fires
Burn bright, and promise of the ancient
And persistent longer light
Now blooms in dreams,
The magic summer's coming, and
She and I, and she and I,
We have our embers.