“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” I’ve carried Wordworth’s words awhile. I've worn them around my neck. Today I breathe a few of my own onto this page with my whole heart. Wordsworth would say, “The Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of the passions of men… he must express himself as other men express themselves…” with “a greater readiness and power in expressing what he thinks and feels.” It’s about the expression, man’s or woman’s, keeping it simple. Relatable. He would say, “…in proportion as ideas and feelings are valuable, whether the composition be in prose or in verse, they require and exact one and the same language.” So Mr. Wordsworth, Do your words a poem make? Today my heart stopped breathing. So did the heart of my dog Rain. She was fourteen years old with a heart of gold, a heart that failed. But did it really— when she gave so much love away? One month ago, my mother passed. Rain traveled across the state line. A good eleven hours in the car each way. Away from home eleven days. The trip was hard. For both of us. Rain suddenly seemed her age. On the third day of the new year, a Sunday, Rain couldn’t breathe. I was ready then to let her go. But oxygen and medicine, a hospital stay and a dollar or two could fix her good as new. For a moment. Just ten days after my mother’s death, I couldn’t do loss again. But I knew Rain’s time would come. And now—“The rain is over and gone!” Yet somehow my heart breathes on.