ManicDDaily

Poem for April, Upstate New York

With sore knee and stick staff,
I upwill the hill, hoping to see
new calves,
slowly, yet inside-hurrying, as if a crud
could dull their blind-white masks
before a cud can even be chewed (not true)–

still I step-stumble, excited and trying for fast,
through mounds of clodded grass-ground,
till at last I’ve found–
ah.

The mom sees me and immediately starts
her sure scuttle
while the little one, brown-blinking through cut-outs
in moon (new moo-n)
wobbles wonderingly after—

and I stop, wanting to follow, but not
to push them on–

Why do we write of such things,
and call them poems?

Better: why write
of anything other?

*******************************

Draft draft poem for Bjorn Rudberg’s  post on real toads to write a poem using “kennings” –compound and kind-of made-up words.  My not very good pic of new calf and mother.  All rights reserved.

So far, a little ahead of the April game of a poem a day, I think, but heading into some busy days.  Sorry if slow returning comments.