The Outside Toy

 

The Outside Toy

is nothing but a stick

you dragged up from the lake

where it floated perhaps

from the mountains we loved

where you raced,

a gazelle over felled trees,

or dipped your muzzle

into clear streams.

We were so alike

all those years,

before my heart collapsed

and you laid there

all those hours

my fingers running over

your flank, counting on me

to take you back

to the lake, to the green

mountains, its rivers,

and their stones you’d

deposit as gifts at my feet.

The stick, buried alive

then dug up countless times,

you’d present for everyone

to see. How many times

did I tell you it was

an outside toy? Only

to be brought inside, finally,

when you left us,

your days quickly over,

leaving us the stick

to place on our mantle,

for everyone to see.