Poet 
: 5
In the spring of our years, a ball of fluff arrived—
a whirlwind of paws and eyes like dawn’s first light.
We named him “Joy,” for that’s what he became:
a thread that stitched two hearts so tight.
Through summers, he bounded in fields of gold,
a blur of fur, chasing the wind’s soft song.
Your laughter, love, his bark entwined—
a trio where all three belonged.
Autumn brought frost to his muzzle, a slow retreat,
his steps now measured, his leaps less high.
We traced his path with softer tread,
as twilight tinged the western sky.
Then winter’s night—a stumble, a cry.
His leg gave way; the vet spoke low.
We nursed him close, our hands his crutch,
while time seeped silent, like melting snow.
The final breath, a weight against your chest,
his gaze still steady, though his frame grew small.
One last sigh, a trust unbroken—
and then the quiet filled the hall.
Now empty bowls, a leash unused,
his shadow lingers in every room.
We grieve in turns, yet hold each other,
tending love that outlives the tomb.
Some say, “Just a dog,” but they’ll never know
how a creature so brief could etch the soul so deep.
In the ache, we find the shape of what we loved—
a bond not drowned in tears, but kept.