This sonnet was written upon the news that my grandmother’s dog passed away—somewhat suddenly and violently—on Sunday. Today is her (the grandmother’s) birthday.

(c) Manchester City Galleries; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Princess, no less royal than her master,
No less loyal to her holder, her head,
Sickness sent her to the earth’s binding bed:
A crumbly comforter softly massed her.
Her owner, princess to Him who’s divine,
Sent prayers for her peace in that dark hour,
Her spirit’s epistles to His bower,
Weren’t denied but replied, “Her spirit’s mine!”
The King’s the keeper of our ends, and starts,
What He gives we get, for He is all kind,
When He takes, our souls through memory find,
The holy harkening that heals our hearts.
If her broken body we may not see,
We hold her soul sweetly in mind’s memory.

Broom Snow
Written at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas,
With a heavy heart,
November 16, 2015

Painting: “A Lady Seated Holding a Small Dog”
By Netherlandish School,
Oil on canvas, 1649-1684


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