Despite the vintner’s dirge,
I’ll make way through the frail clusters
and bring to bear
the broad bulk of being with calf
and my earthy color, the smear
walnut of a bruise.
Farmhands are no bother.
The ewe and doe regained dominion
with great unfussiness.
In loving turn, the master’s hands
pass my parts each dawn
in a sure, recurring aubade.
Even the black mares shy at my lowing,
its widowish timbre
an emblem of morning,
a sickle heaving hay.