The Great Milking
Hands ascend — descend —
In patient, silver measure —
Till the quiet pail grows bright
With Morning’s simple treasure —
The Cow, a breathing Meadow —
Stands — mild as folded prayer —
While Earth, through gentle fingers,
Pours White into the Air —
The Barn holds its warm secrets —
Of Hay — and amber light —
And Labor sings in droplets
Against the Tin — at Dawn —
O Wealth — not coined in Kingdoms —
But gathered — soft — and near —
Where honest palms persuade the Day
To yield its humble Cheer —
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
