Empty

A poem.

Oh, Peanut

Oh, Peanut. This pen and my heart are so heavy, I’m not sure I can write this.
I have never met anyone like you.
Your spirit was so alive, you were always on the run, and when you stopped, there was your curious look, your rounded muzzle, your deep piercing eyes.

And then, I would find you sitting stone statue still at the edge of the field, watching the world, a measure of kitty meditation.

When I wrote in the morning, I knew it would not be long until you popped up at the front window to say, “Hey. You’re missing a beautiful morning. Come to the garden with me.” You were right, of course, and we would sit in the beautiful morning on the arbor bench, and watch our world.

Now, I check the front window every minute here as I write, but there is only the columbine and grass fields stretching away to blue mountains.

The older I get, the more precious life becomes, and I look back on our days and nights, and at least think a broken smile.

To live and to love means eventually to lose, so savor every day between.

Oh, Peanut.