Dogs’ Wedding

Intending to write a poem about the snowfall, I’ll fill this blank page with ink. At their wedding: dogs are periods that escape their footprints. Whitman’s dogs walked further, further than any cleric’s bloodline. My grandmother did not know who Whitman was, but she befriended the grass. She sang, in white, while harvesting cotton in the field that she was. When we wanted to find her, we looked for a song. She dulled her sickle and knitted socks. In her tales: anyone who died would nestle in the clouds. I was the only tale she could never tell, I roamed over the clouds; alive. The sky was a cotton field, I looked for her and found myself knee-deep in a song.