When weeping is under everything
pasture grass is new, like healing skin:
the barn roof gives,
the weather vane turns and turns.
The obedience of the cornfield is
as touching as a sad child.
The cows are dream-struck,
A fine horse arches its neck
and paws the earth.
A washed shirt flutters about the
bony frame of the farmer.
When the young die in war
weeping is under everything.
The mouths of the greedy are like blades
tilling the sweetness under,
ripping the tender shoots,
threshing the perfect seed from its stalk.
The crescent moon rises.
There is one calf live
and one stillborn.
A bear lumbers and sniffs at the edge of the woods.
The night is too soft
when weeping is under everything.
Author: Laura Wisniewski
Laura Wisniewski is a poet and Yoga therapist. She lives in a small town in Vermont among family and friends. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ithaca Women’s Anthology, DownStreet Magazine, Hunger Mountain and Canary.