Full Circle
Full Circle
I could lie here all day
under this pile of warm blankets, listening
to the sounds of wind sighing through treetops
dogs snoring gently as they snuffle in their sleep
the buzz and click of the electric baseboard heater
the low throated rumble of a northbound freight
clanking as it trundles up the tracks
hauling coal to the power plant
the steel snowplow scraping the road
encrusted with snow and ice and salt and sand.
I could lie here all day
remembering how I wrapped your tiny body
in a black burial bag and locked that in the plastic box
snow swirled all around me as I carried it
to a place behind the stone wall
next to the wood pile
under an upside down wheel barrow
I staggered away in the storm
tears frozen to my cheeks.
There you will stay
under the pyramid of Winter
until Spring comes and the ground thaws
when peepers emerge from frozen mud
to sing their ecstatic song
I'll dig a hole and bury you in the pet cemetery
near the others in front of the pond
on the hill overlooking the lake.
It's there you were born, feral, and so
you have come full circle.
I could lie here all day
head under covers, daydreaming and staring into space
feeling my toenails grow long, envisioning
the bowl of oranges on the kitchen table
Rip Van Winkle awakening from his nap
amongst the sylphs and wood nymphs
thunder crashing as angels and ghosts
roll nine pins in the clouds
pondering the past and trying
to peer into the future.
I could lie here all day
under this pile of warm blankets, listening
to the sounds of wind sighing through treetops
dogs snoring gently as they snuffle in their sleep
the buzz and click of the electric baseboard heater
the low throated rumble of a northbound freight
clanking as it trundles up the tracks
hauling coal to the power plant
the steel snowplow scraping the road
encrusted with snow and ice and salt and sand.
I could lie here all day
remembering how I wrapped your tiny body
in a black burial bag and locked that in the plastic box
snow swirled all around me as I carried it
to a place behind the stone wall
next to the wood pile
under an upside down wheel barrow
I staggered away in the storm
tears frozen to my cheeks.
There you will stay
under the pyramid of Winter
until Spring comes and the ground thaws
when peepers emerge from frozen mud
to sing their ecstatic song
I'll dig a hole and bury you in the pet cemetery
near the others in front of the pond
on the hill overlooking the lake.
It's there you were born, feral, and so
you have come full circle.
I could lie here all day
head under covers, daydreaming and staring into space
feeling my toenails grow long, envisioning
the bowl of oranges on the kitchen table
Rip Van Winkle awakening from his nap
amongst the sylphs and wood nymphs
thunder crashing as angels and ghosts
roll nine pins in the clouds
pondering the past and trying
to peer into the future.
|
13
favs |
1201 views
15 comments |
255 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
Winter 2015
Other stories by Michael Gillan Maxwell
Tags
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
Through art and craft we celebrate the lost and understand the depth of grief through a sorrowing beauty.
I like the contrast between the imperatives of life and death and the undeniable human desire to avoid them. A fitting epitaph.*
Love "the pyramid of Winter" and the objectification of grief. *
I am really drawn into the softness and the interweaving of nature and narrative.*
How beautiful and sad. I echo all the previous comments on this poem, Michael. *
"feeling my toenails grow long, envisioning
the bowl of oranges on the kitchen table" *****
*, Michael. I love the way this opened. It forecasted "beautiful". And, so it was. Such lovely, sadness-laden verse.
What everyone said. It touched me...it will touch me again when I read it again. *****
I really like this. I have a friend who just lost a pet and was devastated, but I also like how winter is in this, and how I remember it, and disremember it nowadays. I've thought about it a lot this year, even last weekend in a warm 72 degreed Los Angeles.
MGM, as I know the personal details and can only imagine where this came from, I can feel the depths of your grieving. It's such torture to let go of a dear loved pet, and in this case, your words speak so eloquently of the process, in this early phase. An honoring and sad tale it is, yet a brave poem as well. Thanks for sharing it here. ***
Just lost a pet, so this one hit close.*
*You have a deft touch, Michael. Beautiful.
Beautifully wrought.*
Thank you all for taking the time to read and leave a comment. It means a lot to me.
Not one extraneous line.