With respect to size, my first herd was small
when I was ten, a dozen Hereford cows
grazing grand dreams, belly-high on green
with calves, all offspring from that one
bottled-fed orphan girl grown too big
for a makeshift shed—a start for a boy
when turned-out on grass that died.
Tears are poor consolation for the death
of dreams brushed with details, bred
and rebred to vanish in deep, damp feed—
or for the anger freed to find its home
within, yet I dream and will dream again.
drycrikjournal 