Under My Washing Line
I used to live at the foot of a lush, green hill
whose high pastures fed dairy herds.
When I stood under the washing line
in my cottage garden and looked up,
it appeared that the cattle
were grazing on my roof.
It was then I realized
perception
was a broken fragment in the eye of reality,
God’s little trick
to be understood
in the soft brown eyes of cows.
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