Cold

Cold

though it’s only  August

and blueberries to rake

all damn day.

August although this December

cold's a winter cow’s milk cold

bucket on the drain-

board or spilled

(yesterday, I couldn’t help

it)

glow on the snow cold, it’s snow

it’s August snow the sway

and glow the low light

globed against a blow

a single blow of wind,

that boat blown over

he’s in the bow

alone

And in the all the space 

between,

in the thin space between 

the house

and the barn,

if it’s a hundred

yards it’s miles I can’t

seem to get to him, swim

fast enough to get to him

in one breath

or every one I’ve taken

since.  It’s cold

it’s been cold. 

Can’t wear enough.

Or days

like these get up stay up 

long enough I only want to

be still enough

like he could, is,

is

under his white wood hood

wood, wood it’s wood, wood and the Guernsey

bawling with blister

pain until her late baby

is turned into her stall long

after he needs to or should

to butt

her bag and then between

his teeth her teat, her relief

and my feet burnt

as frostbite from getting to the cold

barn the thick shit stall,

from laying the way he

lays this long August

and will well into Fall

into all the months

to come

to drift like blown snow

without much

notice