A WINTER'S NIGHT
Out in the pasture,
the cows
are wide-eyed
and bellowing,
as a flock
of birds wheel
in the snowy
air above them -
like a multitude
of holy angels
in the December sky.
Now, everything
becomes a promise –
the smell of hay,
the curl of smoke,
the icy fern along
the frosted path,
the kitchen where
the sausages are
hung high and the
walnuts are crushed
and sugared - where
warm gingerbread
steams the windows,
blurring the moon.
And night’s breath
breathes on us again
in our deep slumber,
as the cows lumber
in silent resolution
into the warmth and
light of the little barn.
Out in the pasture,
the cows
are wide-eyed
and bellowing,
as a flock
of birds wheel
in the snowy
air above them -
like a multitude
of holy angels
in the December sky.
Now, everything
becomes a promise –
the smell of hay,
the curl of smoke,
the icy fern along
the frosted path,
the kitchen where
the sausages are
hung high and the
walnuts are crushed
and sugared - where
warm gingerbread
steams the windows,
blurring the moon.
And night’s breath
breathes on us again
in our deep slumber,
as the cows lumber
in silent resolution
into the warmth and
light of the little barn.
