Cary Briel

O come
shy muse from your depths.
Pity me
and tear back
from my dim eyes,
reality,
the ancient rite.
And tell me, muse,
of heaven’s bind,
valleys loosed,
and cows that seem
familiar–
if only in their names.

O lowly cows
that hop,
and skip,
and jump
the moon, as if their want
was heard–
though whispered only by the wind and bird.
As if the lowly–
the familiar–
cows
held sway,
their graves upturned
this winter day.