THE SHEEP
The poor sheep are cold.
Their winter wool was cut off
last week
at shearing time.
When early summer painted
flowers on the desert
with bunches of new grass,
when snow water melted
and softened the hard earth,
when Sun-Bearer smiled
on the sheep and the people.
Then my mother said,
"Now,
it is shearing time."
My mother said that last week.
Last week it was shearing time.
Last week
at shearing time,
my mother caught her sheep.
One by one she caught them.
She tied their feet together
and with her shears
she clipped their wool.
My mother's hands were sure.
She cut the wool but once
from underneath.
She did not fumble,
cutting it here and there
into short pieces.
She cut the wool but once.
Her hands were sure.
My mother's hands were strong.
She pulled the wool back.
She folded it back
to come off in one piece.
My mother's hands were strong.
The sheep lay still
beneath her gentle fingers.
Trusting my mother's hands,
the sheep lay still.
But now
the poor sheep are cold.
They stand in their corral
this morning
and shiver
and bleat
and call loudly
for the sun
and for me
to come.
