Daisy's Silver Disc

In the junk drawer, beneath the pens

and paperclips, where everything forgotten goes,

I found it. Small, tarnished silver,

the edges worn smooth, not sharp.

'Daisy,' engraved, barely legible now,

just a whisper of a name.

A tiny paw print, worn flat

from brushing against her collar, her fur.

No jingle, just the silent weight

of it in my palm. It smells

faintly of old metal, and something else,

a ghost of her. A long time gone.

But the disc, it stays. A small, cold sun.