There’s
a dead dragonfly hanging
on to
our car’s front number plate. One
fine
wing blowing in the wind
stops me
today as I grieve for Millie,
my
faithful companion who died
quietly
in my hands, her body
losing
all the tension
of her
final fevers. Death
is the
last roll of life’s dice,
the
final token we pay – yet
our
greatest relief.
I file this
poem
under POEM FOR MILLIE yet
I know
it is for me, perhaps
for you,
to lessen the sorrow, yet
to
remember Millie. My bare feet
are cold
as I type, cold where she
would
lie across and keep them warm.