A Walk

--Robert Bly (1926 - 2021)

It is a pale tree,

All alone in January snow.

Beneath, a cottowood shoot

Eaten pale by a rabbitt...

Looking up I see the farmyards with their groves,

The pines somber,

Made for winter, they knew it would come...

And the cows inside the barn, caring nothing for all this,

Their noses in the incense hay,

Half drunk, dusk comes as it was promised

To them by their saviour.