Today marks seven years since Milt left.

Seven years.

It is a morning like today,
that I wish he was here so that we could curl up into each other and hunker down
and share our grief over the tragedies of our modern life,
and then...
wrap ourselves in the aroma
of one of his espressos
and plot our next adventure together...

But for now,
our adventures are solo
and I can only imagine what he is up to.

Rolling around in a star system somewhere,
or in a field of wildflowers...
or maybe he is already back here in another form.
He always swore
he would come back as the pet of a friend of ours....

Where ever you are Milton Harris
you shaped my soul in the most incredible ways,
the memory of your touch is in every cell of my being
as I see you in my mind's eye do a forward roll on the Cloverdale tarmac,
dig your car into a sandbank along the Russian River,
"City Slicker to Country Bumpkin,"
your sense of humor, oh god, your sense of humor,
and even your grumpy moments with a wit that could cut like a knife...
and then turn like an Aikido move
as you wrapped a gift from your generous heart,
dancing with the green man and
the way you thought about things,
the way things mattered to you,
the nine-pointed star pointing the way
as I held you in my arms as you slipped out and away
and into the West...

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