Ted Kooser
Just past dawn, the
sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of
trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white
light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days
grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with
the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of
my name.
