By Ethel Paquin
Eventually my cows will come home to roost.
Every year they’re a few steps closer.
Every year I store more hay.
I haven’t needed it yet.
I walk backwards these days
staring into the past,
which stares silently back at me.
Life it turns out is inscrutable.
Today my sky is brilliant blue,
the sun a warm blessing,
the air still and calm.
If the other shoe dropped surely I’d hear it.
There’s a ladybug relaxing on my knee,
her house obviously safe.
It’s a good sign, a lucky sign, I tell myself.
Smile!
But I can’t.
I’m listening for cowbells.
So far, nothing.
Cows / Bill Platt
Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.