I know my dog some day won't somersault.
For now, she stretches brandy-colored limbs
to the seat of a plush chair and hops to the center.
She kneads the cushion as if she's digging for bones;
her claws rake the linen zip-zip-zip.
She lowers her brandy face between her paws,
her body now a sleek black slope
from feathery tail to velvety upturned bat-ears.
Her eyes, glinting coffee black, find mine.
She yaps, as if to say, "Hey! Watch this!"
She tucks her chin beneath, flips belly up,
then kicks the air, and stops. Again, she kicks.
Breathing hard, she rolls to one side, at rest.
May she, by these lines, always be accessed.
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This poem has taken a long time to shake off its origin as a facetious response to a professor who disparaged "accessible" poets I'd praised on my blog, Billy Collins and Ted Kooser. The closer I got to just describing something particular to Brandy, the more I liked it.
For me, it's a bonus to realize that I've unintentionally written an homage to one of Shakespeare's more accessible sonnets.
By coincidence, Brandy got out of the yard just hours after I finished this poem, and for a day and night, I feared the worst. Read about her adventure in my personal blog The Word Sanctuary, The Team That Helped My Dog Find Home.
I include an image by my friend Susan Rouse, who often walks with my dog and me. Susan's practice of painting something almost every week was the impetus for my creating this blog. - WSS
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