The sheep are sitting in the next pasture

Clumped together in the grass,

That thick, rich carpet they eat for breakfast.

I see them sitting in a loose circle

Chewing greenness.

By the fence, a ewe stands apart.

I approach her slowly;

She holds her ground.

We face each other, the fence between.

Her coat, an ancient ivory

Flecked with gray, curls tightly wound.

Our eyes meet.

Hers slitted onyx, mine round,

We gaze at one another

Eyes unlocking.

The ewe, me.

The fence.

And then, no fence.

Who is staring here at whom?

Which is me, which is ewe?

A sudden gust of wind, I blink and

She blinks too, and dances off;

I turn and come inside.

To this room where

We sit clumped together,

Mute, chewing our thoughts.

Forming our own loose circle

On the gray carpet,

Flecked with ivory, woven tight,

of fine English wool.

∞

From the Fall 1995 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 12, No. 1)

Text © 1995-2020 by Janet Keyes