The Promise of Rain
     

       Morning clouds but no rain.
       A good light to look on 
       the face of the dog
       who spends 
       her life 
       looking at me.

       Here is a nick
       where a lover's cat
       etched the rules of the game;
       slow ebbing yellows
       are losing their way
       in her white whiskered sage;
       and the rounds of her eyes
       are growing opaque.

       Time is a treasure
       of breaths, and footsteps,
       of upturned eyes 
       yearning for praise,
       of clouds that arrive
       with their promise of rain.




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