Dharma

Dharma


The way the dog trots
out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her dog house
never fails to fill
the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Ghandi with his staff
and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals
of her steady breathing,
followed only
by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not
shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment
she would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

Billy Collins

Posted over on The Writer's Almanac