i do not see the color of her eyes.
i see only the sentimental things:
tilt of a head
brush of a nose
wigglewigglewiggle that shivers up the spine, from tailtip to heart.
i know them by the way they sparkle with dog-secrets,
lit from inside by some luminous spirit
that dances and spins and defies silence.
i know them tired and centuries-old,
soft and sleepy and stubborn,
aching with the weight of hours on hours of living
without dwelling too long on life.
i know them early in the morning
as she, purest joy in forward motion, teaches me
how to greet the new day,
how to serenade it as my own:
backandforth and backandforth and backandforth
across the grass, wet with dew and second chances.
she is more than eyes one blue one brown,
more than nose or tail or manta-ray ears.
what she is: alive,
all sprinting heart and lopsided smile,
sudden and whole and infinite,
a perpetual beginning
racing racing racing after the sun.