[lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM

  • From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: "LIT-IDEAS" <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 21:02:12 -0500


In winter the pond would freeze and if the freeze was hard
my father and I would have to break it 
and carry water in buckets to the sheep.  
It was a bitter, arduous chore. 
I hated it with a purity 
colder than the icy air.

My father had faith in fealty.  "Come lambing time,"
he'd say, "you'll know the good of it."
He gave me the ewe of my choosing 
to close the deal. I was twelve, I trusted him.
My ewe grew fat with promise.  
I met the mornings without effort.
In late February we found them,
nine of them, dead in a ditch, 
mine among them, the work of dogs.

We burned them there where they lay.
No words were said between us. 
Everything was understood.
That night I dreamed I was running with the dogs.
I knew the sweet the joy of the chase.
When I woke the world had change.

Mike Geary


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