Sonnet

A Soggy Walk on Mother’s Day

I see the shape of you in a tree up ahead, 

curved and gray.  You lean, your shoulders forward

and your knees bent.  The dog sees you too.  Leaves spread

behind you like plumage — proud, grounded bird.

The dog’s vision is keen.  He knows it’s not you. 

His ears drop and his pace slows.  I follow his lead.

Rain soaks through my shirt, and my shoe

squeaks.  I think of my mother, this pressing need 

for meaning, my feet heavy as lead.  

You cross the street and pass under the tree.  The dog

sees you and and strains on the leash.  With dread,

I think of the distance between us, the fog.

The day is gray and you’re too far ahead.  

You don’t look my way, and my mother is dead.