by Dulce Maria Menendez

When I stopped drinking,
the desire to write poems was gone.
Remember this to be true.
The black dog still waits in the distance
not far from the fence.
I watch it and open the sliding windows
to let the winter air run amuck 
through my kitchen door
engulfing me with bites 
of the freezing Midwest.
I stand alone watching. 
The black dog does not run.
It does not bark.
We both stare at the empty field 
in solitude as a snowstorm approaches.