Be Still

Poetry

by Cristina Rose Mastrangelo | 0 Comments

(Long enough for the snow to pile up.)
The sheep stands still
In the wind-blown barnyard
Under clouds slung low on
Cold, white mountainsides.
It seems she stares blankly,
From her docile, unfaltering
Stance, out beyond these
Fenced-in provisions of life.
I turn my gaze so we look
Toward the same open space.
Does an instinctual longing flicker
behind the passive glass of
Her eyes, to roam freely
As her ancestors once did?
How can she remain so
Unaffected? And still, even as
Falling snow forms small piles
On her thick winter fleece?
I shiver as another icy
Gray gust cuts across the
Fallow, barren ranch land.
I fasten my unfurled whims
To the curls of the wind
And concede to my own
Dependency on these
Constructs we've created.
I realize that
This hearty ewe must
Accept that at times,
If we want to survive,
Being still
Is all we can do.

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