by Greg Miller

A trillium three times as broad as any
I've seen, or likely ever will see,
Bends, with its pendant bleeding blossom, down
Beside a meadow, boulders, and a stream
So that to see it, first I have to kneel.

A black ewe grazes with her two black lambs
Nuzzling their heads against her, wanting milk.
(She's weaning them.)
And then I notice how,
Tightly, on porcelain eyes, from post to post,
The nearly invisible fence-wires wrap
Down to the hot box where the juice comes through.


See also:

  • Rib Cage by Greg Miller, the book containing this poem.
  • Our catalog of poetry titles.