Now You’re Gone

You didn’t always bark when they passed,
the other people with their canine companions,
strolling down the sidewalk in front of our house.

Selective, you were, giving voice when you saw
some dogs but not others; maybe you thought
you recognized a friend and called out, but when

they turned around you realized you were mistaken
and that’s okay. If we live long enough,
we all step into the stream of loss, sooner or later.

I look out the window and remember how car noises
scared you, and strangers, and thunderstorms,
and unfamiliar places; my fault, really,

I should have exposed you to more, as a pup.
Still, I can’t complain about the time we spent
together. Just that it was too short and I’m left

to sit at my desk and watch the people
walking their dogs as they pass
on my own, now that you’re gone.

Without Her

hands my dog once kept busy
with so many morning rituals—
walks, feeding, brushing—
now sit idle, unsure 

how to occupy themselves,
and the laziness of knowing
I’m no longer on call
for nature’s call

doesn’t feel like a luxury—
I’m left behind, bereft,
like an unpaired sock,
salt without pepper, 

Laurel minus Hardy,
left to wonder whether
the early-morning birds
still sing as loud without us 

there to listen; whether
twilight bats still zip
and dip across the evening sky
without us there to see 

To the Robin Building a Nest in My Eavestrough

how many times are you going
to make me take this down,
this aggregation of dried grasses
and leaves from last year’s flowers
that you keep assembling
with such painstaking diligence? 

I know it looks dry and sheltered,
this spot in the eavestrough
under the back deck’s roof
but once it rains, you’ll find
it’s a different story and because
I don’t want to see your nest 

washed away in the floods,
I’ll keep dis-assembling your building
efforts, no matter how often
you try—don’t give me
that smug look, as though
ignoring impending tragedy 

were some kind of virtue,
maybe the day will come we both
wish for somewhere high and dry
to retreat to, once the melting glaciers
finish unloading their burden
into the seas

Author’s Biography

Lisa Timpf is a retired HR and communications professional who lives in Simcoe, Ontario. Her speculative poetry has appeared in New Myths, Star*Line, Triangulation: Habitats, Polar Borealis, and other venues. Her collection of speculative haibun poetry, In Days to Come, is available from Hiraeth Publishing. You can find out more about Lisa’s writing projects at http://lisatimpf.blogspot.com/.