—a golden shovel from “Talking to Grief”—Denise Levertov

 

I’ve been searching for a potato like this one—ah,
golden, unblemished and round—good grief,

see how it glows, backlit by sun, cellophaned in water as I
scrub it in the sink. And now, my mind moves on: you should

make the meatloaf, feed the dog. No, the dog is dead. Not
loping across the yard, not napping, not gulping a treat.

The shimmering moment before you,
mind, trotted out the dog: I want it back, like

I want the dog back. Yes, the moment when I beheld a
potato and its possibilities, temporarily homeless,

between its field of origin and the one with the absent dog.