breath-stained window pane

there walks the old man and his dog

too shy for introductions

I sit idly in my bedroom

the moldy scent of the slanted

shack floor reminds me of my dog

who died in the crawl space

after a row with a snake.

a hole was dug adjacent to

the old well and my dad

dropped her in that Sunday afternoon.

the glass fogs from my breath

I outline her name in the pane

within the "s" I see the old man

gently guiding the elderly dog

across the mossy stones of the creek bed.

in the spring,

magnolia flowers bloom

I climb each limb

until fear takes control.

maneuvering each step,

my eyes pause between branches

where stands the old man and his dog.

a kind smile unfolds across

aged teeth and his eyes

hint at dignity

distilled in golden brown bottles.

we eat honey with

muscadines from branches

and treat the old dog to venison.

we sit under the vines

with soiled seats and grass-stained shoes.

empty mason jars fill

with daily walks and talks

past the strawberry garden

and bee hives.

the old dog lays in the shade

near the hunting shed

until our return.

after easter service

I walk through fields

and woods telling myself

the story of Bluebeard.

down the path near his

house crouches

the old man with his dog.

the old dog comes to my voice

his wrinkled face bumps into

my knee with now vacant eyes.

the night fills with a misty spirit

and the shadow of the old man

and his dog gently glides across

his garage door.

the night is divided by the

piercing cry of gunfire and I

practice drawing his
name across the windowpane.