September Morning

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A poem I wrote while sitting on our deck...

September Morning 

 

Monet might have painted these lily pads,

these reflections of sky on water, this glistening light.

I could dive deep into shimmering clouds, but I’ve decided not to swim.

 

My dog is afraid of our pond, though brave enough to wade in the shallows,

bemused by frogs leaping from one lily pad to the next,

and bass smooth-sailing beneath still waters.

 

His intentions aren’t malicious.

More of a naturalist than I, my Jameson, without doubt more patient,

he scans the sky as hawks crisscross above us.

 

I’ll clean Jameson’s paws before we go inside,

taking care with the back left, where he’s particularly tender.

He’ll take his snooze on the couch.

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