Many days have passed, winter months seize the bones,
All that can grow, snow now has halted with a brisk click of its heel,
No more are the days that your plow will strike deeply through the rich
Soil and unearth the pent-up scent of summer crops.
Being half of sound mind and half of sound body, he gaily follows,
Even at this age, the frosted snow drop on his nose is a new discovery of excellence.
Searching through old toys from last season; silently, he sits down with you
Tentative, yet confident that today’s work is done you nod and he seems to smile.
Forgotten music of an old Sashmo cover hums and clicks on the
Record player as the night slips slowly towards quiet winter oblivion.
Intermittent sighs from him allow a glance up from your book every few minutes,
Every few hours the stove must be tended to, a new log thrown on,
New kindling for the two old bags of bones, re-kindling was always your responsibility,
Daring and loyal, he sits with you by the fire.