Old Dog in March

From a cold stone stoop,

stepping down slowly

into another spring,

stretching his back,

stretching his back legs,

one leg at a time,

making a bridge

with his spine, reaching

from winter out and out,

forever out it seems,

then quaking at the end of it,

all down his length

so that his claws

skitter a little, losing

their grip on the world,

an old brown dog

gone stiff from chasing

all winter through dreams,

recovers his balance,

and, one ache at a time,

lowers himself

to the solid field of promise,

where with pink tip

of tongue between his teeth,

and frosty muzzle,

he sips the cool, delicious,

richly storied wind.