For the Wolf at the Door
BY WILLIAM PITT ROOT
While I type
in she trots
out of open daylight,
a hundred pounds of girl wolf,
her laser-gaze golden,
her soft ears half cocked.
When I lean down
to rub muzzles with her,
sandgrains on her chin
give her away:
She’s been
in the garden again,
devotedly burying bones
or digging them up,
and now she’s smuggled
into the study
with all its musty books
the stuff of fields and forests,
the odor of
earth freshly stirred,
in a word
fertile ground!
Bless you,
Lulu Garou,
You’ve done the work
cut out for you.
Now let me do mine.