Her hips roll like the lush hills of Kentucky
round and fertile with tomorrow,
patterned with sunlight. Her ears cuddle kitten songs,
mewing pink tongues that beg gifts
from swollen udders; rosebud nostrils sniff for cream
tht rises in the air like clouds,
fills her mouth, drips down her chin.
Her arms strain like roots
tethering the almost-born to earth.
She works golden shafts of straw
into welcome mats to clothe her beasts.
Her wrists snap and flick wood chips into misshapen utinsils
mined from cedar, ash and cherry,
whittled voices, stolen spirits singing of the Appalachian Trail,
souvenirs and Birdfoot Violet wildflowers.
Her pen drops words like rain
nourishes all creatures great and small,
infuses them with souls, one bleat at a time.
Salt tears replenish the crops
while she cradles her seasons in a basket.
In the distance, a whinny
shines in the sky.
(c)Terry Cox-Joseph 2006
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