They keep drifting in,
these yellow petals, through the kitchen window—
look how our dog
paws at them, sniffs, as though they are soft
scraps of his lost
dream—perhaps
they’re trying to refind his mind, return to him
some forgotten something,
but already he’s moved on, to his water bowl,
slappy slurps his whole
world, as the petals fail
to reach him, yet fill up our conversation,
paving over the little
(was it little?) question I was
about to ask you—
2025