The moon peeks through my window,
sweet and flirty-shy,
swinging like an angel
in a warm and humid sky,
halo all around it
like a temple-presence deep,
the mist of holy ages
and dreams that never sleep.
Bear you any message,
O moon in cloudy-shadowed skies?
Yea, O mortal hero:
What waxes, wanes and dies.
A puppy he was, two decades past;
hardly had he known his master's gentle hand.
He had passed his hunting years, his solar days,
long ago by a dog's count, and was old and tired,
and, no master to care for him in his age, abandoned,
weak and tick-infested, as untended, unloved dogs are.
He lay by the door and endured the time till death.
But once a scent familiar tickled his nose;
once a stranger who was not a stranger passed by.
Two paired eyes met and knew each other,
dog and man, both no more like themselves,
both changed by years, as years only can change.
The ears dropped.
The tail wagged a thump.
The legs struggled to raise the old body,
but soon gave up, for lack of a pup's strength.
Then Argos passed into darkness, one last sigh,
fulfilling his faithful fate with a dog's faith.
The world that shines
within my eye
it gleams and glows
like flakes of snow
in twinkled stars,