A little cow

has lifted its eyes

from hay to Holy Hills.

A Hebrew sun shines in one eye;

an Indian moon in the other.

She eats fat grasses

and drinks sun-lit waters.

The little cow is silent by day,

but all night she speaks

her simple moo to the stars.

Her heart is open and free.

She is dreaming of wild colors

she has never seen:

something far beyond

brown and green.

When her time

to be milked comes

the bucket will overflow

with golden cream.

/Blake Steele

Kategori: Life Taggar: Blake Steele, Ingela Axkrants, cow poem, cows, poem, poetry;
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