Lambs — Bruce Meyer
As we came up the sideroad,
they could have been mistaken
by morning rain for tufts of cloud
left on a knoll, white as heaven,
if heaven exists, standing there
to practice a new-found balance,
sidling to their ewes, mouths open,
hungry for a teat. Our daughter
was as frightened by the lambs,
and hung tight to my wife’s cardigan –
but we wanted this to be a memory
she could carry all her life, discovering
how we share this life with animals,
love and hunger, and need each other
because the world speaks through them
and if we let it speak through us.
An orphan in the farmer’s arms
was brought to the split rail,
with a pop bottle and rubber nipple,
and it was brim with woolly milk.
As our daughter to fed it, as small lips
gave suck and nuzzled in, my heart
leapt skyward from my chest,
and the clouds it touched were fleece.
Bruce Meyer is author or editor of 64 books of poetry, short fiction, flash fiction, non-fiction and literary journalism. He lives in Barrie, Ontario.