My wife comes into the bedroom, where I’ve been drowsing,
to tell me how sweet the dog was in the yard just then,
taking in the view as if completely new, then lifting her long
snout up toward a bud about to bloom on the apple tree
as if to sniff it. Seven years, she’s been with us, and still
we marvel at her every move as if she were new to us.
Then again, every moment is unique unto itself. My wife
and I have thirty-five years of singular moments,
stacking up like flapjacks, like sedimentary rocks, like layers
in a parfait—parfait, from the French, meaning perfect.
