Dog Walk Matins

With dog and chance I trudge winter matins in search, and sure, of hearing her council: such force cannot vanish into ash

or soil. Though we took turns with the shovel, I set out expectant, lark-a-fledge, with dog and chance. I trudge winter matins

and take her pace through sleeping village, sure this way returns me to her love: such force cannot vanish into ash.

Though I dropped dirt onto her coffin, her voice sounds in my muscle when, with dog and chance I trudge winter matins.

And so I find her, as I walk in dark dampness— as if she too falls from clouds above— with dog and chance, as I trudge winter matins. Such force did not vanish into ash.