For my mother on her eighty-eigtht birhday.<\/p>\n
Just past dawn, the sun stands
\nwith its heavy red head
\nin a black stanchion of trees,
\nwaiting for someone to come
\nwith his bucket
\nfor the foamy white light,
\nand then a long day in the pasture.
\nI too spend my days grazing,
\nfeasting on every green moment
\ntill darkness calls,
\nand with the others
\nI walk away into the night,
\nswinging the little tin bell
\nof my name.<\/p>\n
Ted Kooser<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
For my mother on her eighty-eigtht birhday. Just past dawn, the sun stands with its heavy red head in a black stanchion of trees, waiting for someone to come with his bucket for the foamy white light, and then a … Continue reading