solstice morning
our old dog
unable to rise
purple beach pea
his warm weight
in my arms
the last thing
we can do for him . . .
the vet’s gentle voice
summer twilight
a final treat
from my palm
at the exit
donating
his leash
hot tears all day the empty dog bed
RIP Misha, 2006 or 2007 - 2023. See also In Memory of Misha.
a lock of his fur
every verb tense
wrong
his collar
still hanging by the door
a single white cloud
a small clay dog
joins the ancestor shrine
forest hush
the beach without him
ocean merging
into sky
wagging tail
he comes running back
in my dreams
— Annette Makino, published in Modern Haiku, 55:3, Autumn 2024