Under the sign of Aries

A stray dog adopted a man once in April, and because it happened in April, the man called the dog Aries.

Somewhere out there
in April fog he heard him
Whining to himself,
Wanting for a place to get inside.
It didn't matter much to him.
It wasn't his dog.

At the open door he waited
Quite polite
For word that he could come inside
And get his wet paws on the kitchen floor.
A bowl of water, no big thing for him.
It was not his dog.

Once licked dry
He looked up from the bowl
And wagged his tail at him,
And they became good friends.
Balm for a lonesome life, though still
It wasn't his dog.

Then, the dog saved his life
And lost his own.
That was seven years ago.
He lies now in the garden, the amsonia
Monument enough, he thinks.
It was not his dog.