The llamas are splendid
No rain to drench their coats.
They remain woolly and soft,
regal in posture.
I envy their quiet eyes
The Western sky is nature’s best white-blue,
a slow stretch above the horizon, underneath
a canopy of cottony clouds–
a pale swatch echoing stillness
The orchards are empty with smoke rising
from little piles of trimmings
The woods are stripped for winter,
but kind firs lend density
and a few trees have their moment–
Pears show their amber dressings
and a Red Oak cries out
a crash of joyous crimson.
Hay fields are quiet, green patches
folded upon themselves
with brown stitching
and the bare vineyards seem asleep
but their roots and trunks are ever vigilant,
functioning,
lively,
collecting.
No rain to drench their coats.
They remain woolly and soft,
regal in posture.
I envy their quiet eyes
The Western sky is nature’s best white-blue,
a slow stretch above the horizon, underneath
a canopy of cottony clouds–
a pale swatch echoing stillness
The orchards are empty with smoke rising
from little piles of trimmings
The woods are stripped for winter,
but kind firs lend density
and a few trees have their moment–
Pears show their amber dressings
and a Red Oak cries out
a crash of joyous crimson.
Hay fields are quiet, green patches
folded upon themselves
with brown stitching
and the bare vineyards seem asleep
but their roots and trunks are ever vigilant,
functioning,
lively,
collecting.
by Leah Herzing
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