The Bummer Ewe

She bleats in the straw-shed, singing
the only song she knows. Beyond, green
fields of May, lush grass drying to seed-
head, the piercing awn. She doesn’t know
what comes tomorrow. Economics
of sheep, a farmer’s balance-sheet.
Two newborns dead without profit,
she couldn’t give milk, but rubbed against
the slough-bark tree till she was shorn.
Leafless tree still rooted underground,
dead twigs reaching into sky. No one
will spin her wool; her sheep-blood
drains into earth to feed a tree.
Da stieg ein Baum. Who will sing
the fear out of her, sing the journey
into her ear?


Taylor Graham

If you have any comments on this poem, Taylor Graham would be pleased to hear from you.

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