The tired, dying dog
has not moved or eaten
for two days
but summons up a wag
when I say “love time”
or “puppy-mine”
as if there is no memory of
years wearing teeth
to yellow stumps.
Neither can we fathom
we’ve crumpled
under the weight of it all.
And that our frisky, wriggling
infatuation may soon be
buried under cherry trees
to wait cold and still
for the implausible blossoms.