The Language of Loss

Pardon me for not being very fluent,
I am finding the lump in my throat
Interferes with any coherent utterance.
I am having trouble referring to her,
She is my dog, or was my dog,
Rationally, I know she was,
I had the honor of sitting with her,
Doing the one last thing I could.
But, really, I am having a problem,
Saying she WAS a good dog.
She is very present in my mind.
I am still stepping over her in the dark.
Assuming I am being watched from across the room.
Freshly shocked when I see the empty spot.
So, please, forgive me.
I am just not fluent in the language of loss.

Winter

Days have shortened,
No hint of warmth is left in the air.
Only cold greets me as I step outside,
Whether under cold sunshine
Or graying skies.
Autumn looks balmy from here,
But it is gone one more time.
Winter has arrived,
Fires burn in houses,
We tuck ourselves in,
And the cats come inside,
Smelling of woodsmoke.

A Gift

 I am not sure how to take this,
Noticing the green of the grass,
And the warmth of the day,
If I block out the bare branches,
Here and there,
I can fool myself into believing
That spring is here once again.
It almost smells right,
The only thing wrong is
A subtle undertone of decay.
And yet I wonder,
Who do I thank for this gift,
Of an almost spring day
In the middle of fall?