Big Dog and Me

The big dog and I have tramped these woods

so much we’ve become familiar with them,

and with each other. We know the sounds

of our own footprints on the soft bed of the forest

and the crunch of leaves come autumn,

even the whispered fall of snow turning it

white and silent; know the birds and animals

whose space we share, the distant call of a jay,

the sharp rap of woodpeckers hollowing an old

and rotted trunk in search of grubs,

the grunt of a deer in passing, a warning,

and the yip of a fox and her mate, her pups behind.

And I know where she likes to be scratched

behind her ears, the treats and carrots she favors

and how long and far she’ll chase a ball

before she tires, leaving it behind, unretrieved;

know when her walk is called for, our daily traipsing

after dinner; and she knows, too, when I need

a silent walk, or a rowdy romp chasing butterfly dreams

and squirrels, my smile and laughter pursuing her chase;

knows, too, when to let me rustle her fur, roughhouse,

and when just to lie contented at my feet:

this familiarity and reverence we share,

the Big Dog and me.

Changing Seasons

The days pass quickly

even as they grow shorter,

daylight slipping away so soon

into nighttime’s cooler temperatures.

This is the season of reflection.

Caught unaware and unprepared,

I look backwards, wondering

where the time has gone,

these summer months passing now

into autumn; and in the passing

of these days growing shorter,

I am reflected, too, slowing and still,

readying my life for the winter months ahead.

Grieving my Brother

When you lose your brother,

Heaven seems so far away.

The well-wishers give their sincerest

sympathy and deepest condolences

and I smile and say “thank you”;

what more can I say without the anger

I feel, not their fault, any of it.

And the faithful repeat their platitudes

of mom and dad and countless relatives before

waiting, open armed behind the gates of Heaven

to greet him, welcome him home, some joyous reunion,

but it’s of little comfort to me,

for they have the joys of heaven to themselves already;

they don’t need him as I do now in my grief,

in need of a brother’s love,

a brother’s advice, a brother’s comfort,

a far greater need than theirs who radiate glory.

People tell me this goes away, and perhaps it does,

in time, as the days and years go by

and my own passing confronts me, he, his arms spread,

waiting for me beyond Heaven’s gates, no comfort

to those left behind, as I was, when he left me,

unprepared as we all are for death and grieving my brother.

Needle and Thread

Michael B. Wing

October 2, 1951 - July 23, 2017

Needle and Thread

(For my brother Mike)

A needle, slender and sharp,

draws a dark thread in and out,

stitching together cloth woven

of dreams, generations of dreams

back through time to our beginnings,

Banbury’s tailor stitching together

broadcloth into shirts and breeches,

sold on order or bartered away as payment;

so, too, are we all woven together

through Stephen and Daniel and John,

woven and stitched and bound together

with a common thread, a long, dark thread

drawing us closer, tighter, conjoined

in one spirit, one soul through time

traveling forward, settling now in us

who pass it on to you, my sons and daughters,

an endless thread of dreams continuing.