Letting the Dog In
by Emily Ruppel
Whereas the cat has found her way
along the low roof and through
– a quick and weightless leap –
the open window of the master
room, the dog croons wearily to
an implacable moon, fastened
as he is by gravity and obedience
to the big oak in the midnight yard.
Rain falls faster, fuller, the master
still at large come one a.m. I’m curling
my tongue round the pads of my paws,
attenuating their wetness in
the warmth of the guttering fire.
I hear you, yes, and feel the surge
of what must be pity—a broad,
ambiguous heave of it. Less for you,
perhaps, than for your dimly
imagined ancestors, that they
trustingly and with such buoyance
year after vanishing year made
the selections they did.
This poem was first published in the 2015 God and Nature Magazine, a publication of the American Scientific Affiliation.
Related reading: A Poem About Dog Sledding; Mickey Blue Eyes
Whereas the cat has found her way
along the low roof and through
– a quick and weightless leap –
the open window of the master
room, the dog croons wearily to
an implacable moon, fastened
as he is by gravity and obedience
to the big oak in the midnight yard.
Rain falls faster, fuller, the master
still at large come one a.m. I’m curling
my tongue round the pads of my paws,
attenuating their wetness in
the warmth of the guttering fire.
I hear you, yes, and feel the surge
of what must be pity—a broad,
ambiguous heave of it. Less for you,
perhaps, than for your dimly
imagined ancestors, that they
trustingly and with such buoyance
year after vanishing year made
the selections they did.
This poem was first published in the 2015 God and Nature Magazine, a publication of the American Scientific Affiliation.
Related reading: A Poem About Dog Sledding; Mickey Blue Eyes
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