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

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