The Corgi

To my dear sister fighting cancer. 
This was a poem for her birthday.

How often do people
stick their face in yours to ask,
what it must be like,

as they coddle you and call it
affection—do they know?
your short comings

have never stopped you
from coming as far as you have.
And, anyways, you tell them,

gesturing off far into the distance,
How long will it take to get to the end, and does it matter
how tall, how strong, or how long

we are here on this earth?
You were never like the rest:
short-footed yet fast;

never meant you hung on any less, and
if anything, you tell them,
I am far closer to this earth

than anyone I else know.

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