“My old friendly dog called amber is getting to the end of her days. Her favorites were walking, dinner time and getting her belly rubbed. She is especially fond of eating old musty books.”

Amber, my old friend with the honeyed eyes,  
Each step she takes now measures slow goodbyes—  
Once lightning-swift across the autumn grass,  
Now gentle as the fading shadows pass.  

Dinner’s bell would set her tail a-whirl,  
She’d leap for joy, a soft and golden curl.  
Every walk—a kingdom for her to defend,  
Every corner, bush, and breeze, a friend.  

Oh, Amber loved the world from ground to sky,  
But nothing sparked a glimmer in her eye  
Like battered books, forgotten, leather-bound—  
She’d pluck them, chew them, scatter them around.  

Pages, musty with the scent of days before,  
Wedged beneath the couch, beside the door—  
She’d nose them out like treasure in the gloom,  
Devouring stories, secrets, in her room.  

The days grow soft, her coat now tinged with frost,  
We linger on the paths we often crossed.  
I kneel; she sighs, with belly bared and warm—  
Trusting, loyal, gentle in my arm.  

Her love—a tale more deep than written word,  
A loyalty no ink could ever serve.  
So, as the twilight dims those golden rays,  
I hold her, grateful for our wondrous days.  

And in the hush, I hope she always knew:  
The truest story I have lived was you.

Create Your Own Poem | Recent Poems