A poem I found from 2004, when Luka first entered my life. For some reason, it helps a little right now.

I am trying to begin a poem without using "the"
Because not everything is so definite, so specific,
So noun-oriented, thing-pointed, overstated.
Luka is barking.
But his barking is less than a shout
And he is more than a dog—
More of a sentry or sage
With something like a worried wince—
But not exactly—
A whine, but brief and lower.
It relates to fear—
To death always being right around any corner—
But also to a pain in not killing.
It is a secret he is trying to teach us—
With alertness, "the" dissolves into essence,
A singular, non-specific tingle.

Luka would say sky is not blue today.
But less than blue, less than sky
And more—it is what we walk through—
not fully gray, and a bit yellow and close,
wet and white with early rain,
And warm.
Seasons signal—bark us down:
They tell us to pay attention to what is about to be lost
Under a weight of definition
What might be gained if we can hold our gaze,
And live today as it happens to be,
Lacking a definite article.