The slam of the door

to the storm of the world.

What is the point

of being lost

if it is not to be found,

the loss of hope

if not the reward of redemption,

what good the realization of help

if not the recognition

of those loved ones and guardians

put here to help

in surprising countless forms,

the realization of that insight

in a moment of life?  

Blue-white the night

through a winter-land cascade

of large, feathery snowflakes

carried in abundance

by the frozen breeze,

the boots plunging knee-deep,

one foot after another,

the storm gathering its fury

to snuff life foolish enough

to be wandering uselessly,

overhead the surge of black wing

searching just such a mouse,

and not far behind

the sudden yap

of unfulfilled coyote.

Only the black sides

of the timber trunks show,

half-outlined limbs

reaching futilely to nothingness,

the beginning of driving powder

blinding the eyes

to all other sight,

back there,

the car drift-stuck,

bad decision,

why take

the short-cut

through the woods

to home, all familiarity gone,

for adventure,

for self-reliance?

White-out, first fumbling,

hands and feet aching,

then the jumping thud

to the chest,

the grin of sharp teeth,

the whirling of a dervish,

delighted in mirthful spin,

effortlessly to leap

and leap again,

raising a spray of new snow,

his element, not mine,

biting it,

shoving his face in it,

the first feel

of the hairy form against me,

raising my own hairs,

romping, romping, romping

this way and that,

the discovery all his,

white and ghostly,

pushing off another jump,

nearly to my shoulders.

Tough not to holler the expletive,

a strangle of humiliating surprise,

the called-for profanity,

escape from the lost loneliness

of the night,

found by a guardian

of my youth,

bundle of care that one,

my old dog,

leading me

to the lights of home,

was I ever glad to see you.

Copyright 2009, Jerry W. Engler