The storm that was a pause between things
Unmoving white sky, after two hours of sleep.
Like a view for the morning after you die:
No color, no sound. Only the rhythm of dogs
Breathing at the foot of the bed, those animals
To whom death, like life, is just passing weather.
The snow has fallen or is yet to fall but is not falling.
Two ages like thick glass tectonic plates
Clasped me as they passed against each other.
One an age in which I existed, the other
Where I was absent. I could not see
the difference. So little would change,
So little that had to happen for the morning
To come no matter what. That is when
The dogs left me. We are not alone in death
But we are alone in despair. Numbness coming
In from the arms and legs toward the heart.
The brain a battering ram turned inwards.
Then I slept. So many things we can’t control
That happen anyway. The memory of deer
in the backyard the dawn before. The deer
Themselves. The paths that brought them
To nibble at a birdfeeder the day before a storm.
Translations from the English 
I just love where your mind goes, Jeff! Much to muse on.
Thanks Lynne.
Beautiful and poignant.
Thank you, E.
Excellent poem, Jeff.
Thanks—
Indeed, morning will come again and again whether we participate or not … glad you did, and followed up with these lines. I often have trouble going back to sleep after waking in the wee hours – dog breathing at foot of bed, cat weighing covers down around my feet – easy to think dawn might comes easier if I evaporated. So far, that is just conjecture. Now while pondering, I’ll reflect on this poem. Thank you.
Beautiful poem, Jeff. I love the dogs and deer and the passing weather.