Kathleen Peirce Silver Moorit

Could the bare-faced sheep, a Merino, in moonlight,
say, with a moist mouth, please, take my coat,
the coat would fall to the shearsman at morning
the same. Could the spinning wheel sing the word roving
while swallowing it, we would pray with the nun
in her tub of warm milk, tray of fresh cookies just out of reach,
or remember the stray into woods as a child, bear in hand,
stuffed with wool, where a better child strayed
on a different day, far away from the others enough
to find odor of creosote private, like you,
on the footbridge still waiting forever, like me.
There could be more animal beauty to note, God to find,
bear in mind, a sense of things moving, the feeling
of cadence of feeling in thoughts, could be
two notes played together on the staff of a score,
a corral with a trough to encircle a fold.
To have made something, end. To be made something of,
some breeds have crimped fleeces so opulent, lustrous, so long,
they have almost no faces, but a view hid by locks
of a color of value called Silver Moorit.


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