25 January 2011

99 │ prayer for Annie

It is easy to say, Annie,
that we hate life,
and that we thus hate
and rue our lives.

We can hate life, my dear,
and pound away at our pillows
as if we know, most decidedly, better—

the first of three heavy, heavy snows,
and a hard, deep, mysterious tumor,
remember (when is it melting)?

Nutt Nutt
Nutterbutter Peanut Butter (that’s her real name)

But we do not, bamboo.

Today, Sunday, the 2nd of May 2010,
the heat descended on 41 Madison
like a terrible and profound weight,
and the terribly humid evening wore us down
like doves.

Spring had turned a corner.
Vicious winter had finally given way to wistful summer,
and the hummingbird’s flighty metabolic flare
rose like the first red ruby
of the season
(to take a drink).

And we cried as such
needy, needy dogs:

Fuzzy Nut
Weary Nut
Nutt Nutt of Ellis, Nutt Nutt of Doris
Nutty Nutty Ms. Nutty

Earlier in the day, in a wonderfully shaded haven
in a neighborhood far, far away,
a beautiful young girl rescued
a torpid eastern tent caterpillar
from a desperate deckbound
captivity and death,
taking the solitary fern frond
under which the caterpillar
had been found
with her.

This was fortune, what did it mean,
and the caterpillar did go gladly up
the cherry tree
at the delicate drop
of her fingertip.


At the same time, sadly, some 40 miles away,
a beautiful young woman (this one with wild eyes and wild hair)
saw her companion
close her sweet little eyes
for the duration.

We wonder about such things as correlation.
We wonder about fate and lessons.

But for now, Father Time, we beg you, let us not lose sight of what it is that we are doing:

Nutter Butter
Ms. Nutty Nutty
Nutty of Yesteryear
Nutty of Nevermore

For her keepers now we pray for carrots.
We pray for simple bedding and strawberries too.
We pray for brown eyes and the sparkling gift of Christmas.
And to her progenitors we say thank you.

Be well, we pray,
and rest easy, Nutmeg.




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