William G. Womack
I Called You Cajun
When did we get old, old friend?
When did you first notice things were dim,
Less etched and clear?
When did our eyes need a longer arm,
Or a friendly scent to help us see?
I wonder, too, if we really walk as crisply
On our nightly jaunts.
And is the silver shining in my hair
Distinguished like your graying muzzle?