Sprite is my dog,

To whom I pour my laughter and tear.

It leads me through damp fog,

In the morning walks when it senses my fear.

“Arf arf”--joy overflows its tiny torso.

“Nnn...nnn…”this contagious clump of sadness weeps in a corner.

A believer of constant catharsis, as it

chases ferociously its indocile tail,

indulges obliviously in its rawhide chew--

A jester, a loco; a childish child, a mournful mourner.

 

Sprite is my dog

Who inspires my curiosity--

Why do leaves fall instead of flying toward the sky?

Why is a caterpillar also a butterfly?

Why can’t I eat two bowls of biscuits?

Why do I poop red when I steal mommy’s bowl of beets?

I adventure in a world so marvellous,

To satisfy my inquisitiveness.

Every day I explore,

as ferociously as when my dog wuffs for more.

 

Poem, to me, is like Sprite:

Sometimes fastidious: a haiku as Sprite carefully approaching a blue jay;

Sometimes wild and crazy: a Whitman as Sprite waddling in a puddle;

Sometimes as cheery as Sprite’s staring eyes;

Sometimes as sullen as the little sad figure after a bad haircut.

I learn, I grow, I celebrate my failure and success,

As joyfully as my fellow squirrel chaser.

I love and I hate and I live and I express.

“Love” as my hoarded bone collection; “hate” as the cats of the neighbor.

Sprite will leave me one day, but never will poem.

As I weave my thoughts into countless verses,

A million times, as the “fetches” that Sprite rehearses.