When and how
the earth turns or twists
to create this moment of balance
is beyond my control.
Exactly when the planet
leans into darkening hours
shorter and shorter days--
all this is out of my hands.
I may protest
every minute of disappearing sun
the packing up of porch furniture
the pulling out of extra blankets,
yet there is a sort of comfort
in knowing that the universe decides
when to replace a second of sun
with a second of night.
But it is I
who must make
the decisions
about my old dog,
I who must decide
what path to take for today’s walk
whether through the rose garden
or around the lily ponds.
I who must choose
between the chopped chicken
or beef in gravy
for his dinner.
On this day of transition
I look at the basket of unused toys
hind legs that cross or collapse
cloudy cataracts,
and I wish I were not
entrusted with
decisions about
his universe.
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