Black dog rests her head on the small of my back,
She’s four now, and she’s seen as many winters as summers.
Me, I’m not so lucky.
My newborn self knew leaves first,
perhaps that’s how I learned to cherish melancholia.
Black dog doesn’t hang on to the grey things like I do—
Or, for that matter, the golden.
“Do not fret about things to come,”
She might tell me,
Her velvet snout nudging me closer to the hearth,
But the idea never crosses her mind.