Lucy,
gentle giant stitched from snowfall and thunder,
you arrive like weather;
all presence, all sky.
Your paws, soft anvils;
announce you before your shadow does,
and still, somehow,
you believe yourself small enough
to curl into laps,
to fold your long limbs into love.
Your coat;
a scatter of gray constellations,
storm clouds resting on warm earth,
each spot a story I’ll never finish reading.
You carry blankets like sacred offerings,
dragging comfort room to room,
as if you know
we are always in need of something soft
to survive the day.
And your voice…oh, your voice;
not a bark, but a proclamation,
a song the house must hear,
a reminder that you are here,
that you feel,
that you belong loudly.
Lucy,
you are the space between loneliness and laughter,
the weight at my side
that steadies the world.
If love could take shape,
it might look like you,
too big, too earnest,
too full to ever be contained.
Stay, sweet girl,
in the doorway of my days,
in the quiet after storms,
in the place where I reach without looking
and always find you.