Therapy Dog
       

Leafed out like a bloodgood maple
in my meditation chair, my focus
ungainly over flagstone and sedum,

downpour of emotion. Feet flat
to the cold, I am alone with intention.
The mindful bell conditions his coming,

as others are called in the wake
of smoldering disaster, when buildings
quake and crumble, papery hands

grasp the long forgotten, when
a child wounded in unspeakable places
cannot say where or how. Come

herders and retrievers, velveteen
with hot breath, to unjangle nerves
in courtrooms, sniff out grand mal

and stealth of dying, when the smoke
and wail clear, and those left living
lift their dark glasses for the first time

since falling so far so fast, stash
their canes in the closet. In the daily
mantra of metta, come snowy blaze

to soften wrongs, lay back ears
for a sweet lick of spoon. Come
shawl my ankles, wet nose to knee,

both taproot and compass
for my straying. No matter whence
no matter where, Come.

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Copyright © 2020 Linda Parsons All rights reserved
from Candescent
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission