Spring Death
Across the snow melt in the field
A calf pushes free from his mother.
The cattle call and none do yield
As she cranes her neck in welcome.
She licks the womb’s natural shield
And nudges him to awaken,
But he lies where he fell in the field
As the grass breaks free beside him.
The prairie to the sun has kneeled
Until the line between is illusive -
Golden of sky, golden of field -
The breaking birth of the season.
Copyright © Rosann Fode | Year Posted 2014
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