Still He Appears
Still He Appears
At the corner this morning,
the light found the pampas grass again—
each plume a golden torch
swaying in quiet celebration.
And as always,
I think of Ridge.
It’s been decades now,
yet still he appears—
in the shimmer of morning light,
in the eager sway of these plumes
at once reminding me
of his proud, puffy tail.
He walked like he knew
exactly where he was going,
each stride certain,
his joy uncontainable.
His heart a compass pointing always
toward the next good thing.
He was a rescue,
though I’m not sure which of us
was really saved.
From him I learned
how to step into the world,
to trade worry for wind,
to run simply because I could.
Now, when these grasses shimmer,
I imagine him there—
weaving through sunlight,
tongue out, eyes alive,
still teaching me
how to live wide open.
And though the years have carried him
beyond my sight,
he lingers—
in the golden sway,
in the hush between heartbeats—
long lost,
but never forgotten,
still running through the tall, endless grass.