Wet behind the ears, gentle
as a lamb – innocence wrapped
in silver paper, tied with
remembering string knotted
on ancient knuckles. He may
not know their names any more
(Time has seen to that), but he
could tell them just when to cut
the wheat, where to find the best
Saskatoon bushes – bent like
beasts of burden beneath their
berry up-dos – how to get
the last drop of sweet milk from
that skittish cow. His silver
mane beads with the effort at
recollection; memory,
ephemeral wisp, drips off
like sweat on yesterday’s dust.
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This is a leaf from a ‘Lamb’s Ear’ plant…
