Ashes

Every morning I see the plastic urn
That contains the ashes of what once
Was our dog who lived fifteen years.  
I still find her brown hairs sticking
To rugs or pieces of my clothing,
As if she refuses to leave our house.
I now take solitary walks where I
Encounter people who, for years,
Had seen me tramp along with my
Constant companion.  I have to explain
Over and over again that she is
No longer with us.  
I still expect to hear the click-click
Of her paws on our wood floors.
I still expect her to curl up
Like a question mark at the end
Of the bed, leaving me little room
To stretch out.  
I tell myself that she lived a long,
Happy life.  She was just passing
Through our lives.
We will scatter her ashes in the woods
Along her favorite path, brimming
With smells that only she could
Appreciate.  The autumn leaves
On the ground will be her new blanket.