A Blank Page

To sit with a blank page in front of me,
and pen in hand,
stirs a thoughtfulness within,
a deep calm,
a solemn peace.
For when I am engrossed
in composition,
I am in the moment.

When delving into dreams of the future
I must carry the words home,
here…
to this page…
to this moment.

When fading into memories of the past
I must still return
here…
to this page…
to this moment.

Now.

Now,
as my dogs sleep nearby,
and cars drive by,
and the September rain slides
down my windowpane,
and the light leaves the sky,
I am here.

To sit with a blank page
in front of me,
and pen in hand,
reminds me
I am here.

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It Is Time

The little, rescued mouse,
Who licked my hand
And burrowed between my fingers,
In dying,
Finally gave us the courage
To bury the ashes of the dogs
We lost more than six years ago.
 
One went under a pear tree,
The other a peach,
And the little mouse under an apple.
 
How sad the loss of what might have been
For one so young and innocent.
How devastating the loss of those so loved
Which we could never fully let go.
 
It is time.
It is time.
 
One small heartbreak
Cracked open our hearts to grief,
Reopened our wounds from loss.
We gently touched the hurt places,
With tender fingers,
Finding fewer tears, less pain.
Finding they were ready to heal.
 
We were ready to accept the truth.
 
Every creature
Must return to the ground
(we cannot keep them)
Since it is the only way
They will grow again.
 
Every creature
Must be willing to let go
(however long it takes)
Since it is the only way
They will bloom again.
 
It is time.
It is time.