I am tied
by a golden ribbon,
umbilical cord of late afternoon,
to the ground.
The land is a constellation
of clapboard houses
ringed by purple lupine.
Hedgerows are cracks,
threads tracing edges
where light blooms,
the gold-green, green-gold
of a field dotted with sheep.
I am kneeling,
my arms around the warm belly
of a deep-brown ewe.
I scooped her stillborn lamb,
soft-boned, into a box,
and now I am milking out her thick cream
onto grass,
feeding fields.