Dogwood

Dog days doggone dog-tired dogwork of summer, mowing the grass we're all coming to the dog tags of you, me, I, we, stashed in a box, doghouse throwaways. Even the namesake tree whose blossoms some call Jesus-flowers for the rust-grooved tips of the petals as if nails now removed had indented the shape of a cross, betrays my mood how all those springs ago seeing our tree nailed with bloody after bloody crucifix I said this beauty's no foo-foo and sure enough my dog-weary dearie mowing today, the spring long gone, I brush a limb on whose tired leaves mites amble the edible thoroughfares and as if to confirm it, our neighbor's mutt runs along the fence yapping dogwood dogwood dogwood as the mower chugs on, our train leaving for the city beneath the grass.