Once again, delightful squeaking swarms the trees,
celebrating en masse, here to there; chucked down
by some suspect deity who, for whatever reason,
laments or teases my petering out; my “it is what it is”
Rescued, again, by one with a scratching voice;
compelling a lifting of chin, a prying away of eyes
from ground, from monitored, measured steps;
I search the canopy for Joy: There! She lingers!
We walk daily; Fuzz, so ravenously alive,
reclaiming spots he owned the day before,
brashly stolen, claimed by a vagabond mutt.
This was my take at first, his selfishness:
primal greed.
Now I see only frantic glee of knowing wafted
through quivering nostrils scripture enshrined in golden globes
left to entice on green/grass blades and sticks.
He wears the mantel of joy reading ecstatic visions;
cheeks pulsating, pulling in holograms only he can see.
wonders I can never see….never imagine!
Fuzz is joyous in his bliss of piss and I
cursed with crude senses, can only cry for his joy;
for joy is joy, not to be diminished.
If he in canine/glee jerks our tether in disregard of me,
I still can only smile though yanked, drug hard
from bush to yellow spot of grass and post.
The blissful are pardoned for thoughtlessness.
Belated Words 