A Mary Oliver Morning with Missy 

Flowers standing in a white vase. 
Water in a ceramic bowl. The cold tiles. 
The dog sneaks her grey body from the pillow. 
The way she makes her aching response to the small, kind gesture. 
Then laps the bowl dry. 
Then asks to go out into the world
where she spins in circles and for no apparent reason across the lawn,
then sniffs, still spinning, in the grass. 
I watch her a little while, thinking: 
What more could I do with wild words? 
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her. 
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.