A Birthday Poem


Just past dawn, the sun stands
With its heavy red head
In a black stanchion of trees,
Waiting for someone to come
With his bucket
For the foamy white light,
And then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
Feasting on every green moment
Till darkness calls,
And with the others
I walk away into the night,
Swinging the little tin bell
Of my name.


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A Birthday Poem