My Neighbor Sleeps
And by degrees his cows
bellow to the bovine moon
until frost braids a muzzle
out of their breath.
They own no shelter
except themselves,
a blanket of hide,
a belly stoked on hay.
Beside the valley of morning
a record cold temperature lowing.
1 comments:
so much to love about this poem,
the way the title leads into the first line ...
the bovine moon
the frost braiding a muzzle out of breath.
muzzle. muzzle. muzzle. what a great word. muzzle.
and then that third stanza, a beauty. So simple, that is and so full, so full
and then this line, "the valley of morning."
and the final lowing takes me somehow to the Christmas story, the cattle are lowing the poor baby wakes .. and the neighbor sleeps.
i don't know why i can't seem to get my thing to publish as ahundredfallingveils so i will try anonymous
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