{
  "version": "https://jsonfeed.org/version/1",
  "title": "Poetry on Isaac Gaff",
  "icon": "https://avatars.micro.blog/avatars/2026/30/1881763.jpg",
  "home_page_url": "https://isaacgaff.com/",
  "feed_url": "https://isaacgaff.com/feed.json",
  "items": [
      {
        "id": "http://igaff.micro.blog/2026/07/30/this-ones-hitting-in-a.html",
        "title": "Dog Poems",
        "content_html": "<p>This one’s hitting in a new and tender way today:</p>\n<blockquote>\n<p><strong>Her Grave</strong></p>\n<p><em>Mary Oliver</em></p>\n<p>She would come back, dripping thick water, from the<br>\ngreen bog.<br>\nShe would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin<br>\nfrom her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile —<br>\nand I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her <br>\ncunning elbows,<br>\nand I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the <br>\nunassuming perfect arch of her neck.</p>\n<p>It took four of us to carry her into the woods. <br>\nWe did not think of music,<br>\nbut anyway, it began to rain<br>\nslowly.</p>\n<p>Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.</p>\n<p>Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased <br>\nsomething.</p>\n<p>My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash<br>\nof happiness as she barged<br>\nthrough the pitch pines swiping my face with her <br>\nwild, slightly mossy tongue.</p>\n<p>Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his <br>\ncrimson throat? <br>\nHe is wiser than that, I think.</p>\n<p>A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.</p>\n<p>Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds <br>\nthink it is all their own music?</p>\n<p>A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, <br>\nbut you <br>\ndo not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the<br>\ntrees, or the laws which pertain to them.</p>\n<p>Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of <br>\nthe hill<br>\nthink all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the <br>\nrefreshment <br>\nof her long slumber?</p>\n<p>A dog can never tell you what she knows from the<br>\nsmells of the world, but you know, watching her, <br>\nthat you know <br>\nalmost nothing.</p>\n<p>Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think<br>\nthe black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace <br>\nof his own making?</p>\n<p>She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come <br>\nback, <br>\nor wait for me, or be somewhere.</p>\n<p>Now she is buried under the pines.</p>\n<p>Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and <br>\nnot to be angry.</p>\n<p>Through the trees there is the sound of the wind, <br>\npalavering.</p>\n<p>The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste <br>\nof the infallible energies?</p>\n<p>How strong was her dark body!<br>\nHow apt is her grave place.</p>\n<p>How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.</p>\n<p>Finally,<br>\nthe slick mountains of love break <br>\nover us.   </blockquote></p>\n",
        "date_published": "2026-07-30T12:23:12-05:00",
        "url": "https://isaacgaff.com/2026/07/30/this-ones-hitting-in-a.html",
        "tags": ["Poetry"]
      }
  ]
}