a wolf on my chest

A wolf sits square on my chest.
His teeth are sheathed, his eyes

He is old, he came in spring,
    now the wind says
it is a week from winter.

I will put him away soon
with other summer memories.
Age faded, not to grey,
    But to a lighter shade of being.

Green eyes see that future of white
and blink in understanding.
      He sees the frost and snow
of November, the turning
of the year in late December.
He sees through my eyes
his pulse beat with mine.

Wool and felt will be my winter
pelt. The cotton of a vest
will serve no use in these harsh months

So the wolf will rest, a quiet repose
among my light-weight cloths
his nose twitching for shoots emerging and rising sap.
Eyes closed in foldings,
    waiting patiently for Spring.

  – Dave Kavanagh.

3 thoughts on “a wolf on my chest

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