last stop, cold spring

open the black box last,

the note says.

i find it under christmas gifts,

temporary tattoos,

sparkly pink mirror,

dancing skeleton dogtag --

day-of-the-dead trinkets

sent from the city of angels.

i finally find the box,

small metal vial in a black velvet bag.

a hasty scrawl explains:

sitting in your hand

are gracie's ashes.

susan's sent her smalldog

on a cross-country trip,

last stop, cold spring.

i shake the vial gently

and hear the happy barks

of a bone-tired traveler,

eager to go running

in the woods behind my house.

Done