My doting mother
is the ground.
Her soil womb
does not make sound.
I nestle into
blackish dirt;
inside of her
I cannot hurt.
But once each year
the men must know
if I will see
my own shadow.
They tear my body
out of her.
Relentless sunbeams
burn my fur
as I am laid
upon the earth,
the child of
inflicted birth.
Then suddenly
appears a ghost,
the bluish spectre
I fear most:
its formless bounding
in the grass
(its undulating,
godless mass)
will churn like thunder…
but it’s me.
Beneath my feet,
the ghoul I see
is only light
which I have stopped,
or God’s intentions
I have chopped
before they landed
on the lawn.
I, entropy
have made a yawn
in greater plans
than I should touch.
The beast below
will prove too much
for my faint heart—
I whip around.
The kindness of
the silent ground
is all I know.
It’s all I want.
My mother shelters
me from haunt.
The dark down here
denies my strife,
yet men uproot
my silent life.
Their inquiries
of coming spring
will force me towards
a violent thing
I know no creature
should confront.
I hate the hubris
In their hunt.
I close my eyes,
knowing again
this time next year
I’ll meet the men.
I pray to end
solemnity,
so maybe next year
men will see.