Sunday afternoon -
The living room is contradicting itself once again -
Dark and Light characterize its hue.
The white leather couch sits still, opening its arms to the pillows of pink and blue.
The coffee table stands bored, but proud that it resides
In the only room in my house that touches the front yard and back yard at the same time.
A big white bay window sheds a mouthful of sunshine
cast onto the wooden floor,
dust lingers in its majestic ray,
I am reminded of my puppy.
What a very special friend; he was blind.
Yet every afternoon the sun never failed
To draw him here.
He would lay there peacefully under the natural blanket.
This thought puzzles me.

Rocky, blind as he was, still saw the sun?

I know he felt its warmth,
he could sense its presence
and seemed lost on rainy days.
And I take note that the other side of the room:
Gray shade -
my yard's trees, the wooden fence keep the sun's light for themselves.
Never once have I looked to find sun here and succeeded.
And Rocky must have done the same, because
Never once have I looked to find him here and succeeded.
If the sunshine could talk, she would gently ask me,
"Where is your furry friend?"
Surely she must be lonely,
casting her light on a bare wooden floor.