a storm you must weather
3 poems by Julie L. Moore
Grand Entrance
Spring pasture bares its skin—
black, beefy bovines
lounging in the shadows of maples
fleshing out green,
earth moist beneath their bellies,
calves lolling in the long grass, too,
so small, so low, only the smooth
thin lines of their heads
crown.
Then one, brave as a bull,
pushes through, rising,
balances, turns
its downy, white-dappled head,
whirls its tail,
and enters the day.
Pessimist
Just when your resolve was thawing
like the late winter ground,
the freezing fists of rain
beat on your door, insisting
you let the icy body of gloom back in.
You must survive the pain of impending
loss. You can’t go soft now.
You can’t stand at your window, watching blackbirds
gather amid the old snow on the only patch of grass
exposed, foraging for something
to sustain themselves. You might be amazed
by what they find on that green space.
By what, after being buried like the dead,
would still feed them. You must brace yourself,
fearing even hope is a storm you must weather.
Appears in Slipping Out of Bloom (WordTech Editions, 2010):
Reflection
Twitching its orange-tagged ear
as two flies landed, its jawing rhythm
sounding like footsteps crunching mulch,
number 43, short and stout,
came closer to the wire fence
than any of the others
to investigate this black Lab pup,
rump high, tail wagging ferociously
on the other side. And the fence became
a magic mirror. Oh, yes, both wore
the plush black coats of their youth,
had those round mocha eyes, seeped
steam through their cool glistening noses.
But that’s not really what I meant.
For while the calf swallowed
and Maggie approached the fence,
suddenly sober and aware,
they seemed to wipe the mirror
clean with wonder,
and I could almost hear them asking
the same curious question,
the echo between them
like the call of owls from tree
to moon-waxed tree,
who are you?