April 14, 2012

There is wind this morning, making a rushing sound outside the window, falling silent then building up to that rush again, as if it were irregular waves on some ragged shore.  The new leaves, just now dark against the deepest blue, rattle against neighboring twigs, little clicking sounds of them clashing together when the wind is full of itself, the branches gesturing like Italian mommas scolding their kids, arms and hands, graceful and fluid, emphasizing their words, you can tell from across the street what mood grips them from their eloquent hands.  The wind this morning seems fitful and restless, unable to blow steadily, reminding me of the black dog who lives behind, who rushes into the yard when let out and, nose to the ground, hurries around doubling back and forth to smell everything, to chase the lingering scent of rabbit or squirrel, to lie down finally and roll in the grass as if smelling it where not enough, as if the only way to satisfy his nose is to bathe in the tantalizing smells.  There is something about dogs that is so earthy, that makes us smile at them, they take such unadulterated joy in things.  Their tongues lolling out of silly grins as they just run around taking in the world and it makes them happy just to be doing what they are doing.  Did you ever see a cat like that?  It's the domain of dogs I think just to enjoy the world, to be exuberant and joyful, and try to share that joy with everyone they meet.

I had picked another poem to send this morning, but the dog entered and stole my intent and substituted a poem of his own . . .

Over And Over Tune 

You could grow into it,
that sense of living like a dog,
loyal to being on your own in the fur of your skin,
able to exist only for the sake of existing. 

Nothing inside your head lasting long enough for you to hold onto,
you watch your own thoughts leap across your own synapses and disappear --
small boats in a wind,
     fliers in all that blue,
          the swish of an arm backed with feathers,
a dress talking in a corner,
          and then poof,
     your mind clean as a dog's,
your body big as the world,
     important with accident --
          blood or a limp, fur and paws. 

You swell into survival,
     you take up the whole day,
you're all there is,
     everything else is
not you, is every passing glint, is
     shadows brought to you by wind,
          passing into a bird's cheep, replaced by a
                         rabbit skittering across a yard,
a void you yourself fall into. 

You could make this beautiful,
     but you don't need to,
living is this fleshy side of the bone,
     going on is this medicinal smell of the sun --
            no dog ever tires of seeing his life 

keep showing up at the back door
even as a rotting bone with a bad smell;
feet tottering, he dreams of it,
wakes and licks no matter what. 

Ioanna Carlsen

Your mind clean as a dog's, yep, I'd like that for awhile, nothing but the moment's joy, nothing but what the senses bring, to take up the whole day!  When next I see that black dog, I will have to thank him for his joy, which I am sure he would not understand, knowing no other way, knowing only his own loves, his own world at the end of his nose.  Still, it's a good thing to practice a little gratitude even to a dog for showing that joy that is so infectious, that makes us smile seeing it, quivering beneath the fur, shivering with such tail-wagging delight!