Fleece

Was it spring when they set the blueberry fields ablaze?
And we watched from the village in grace
as the mountain burned, the smoke a fleece
blanket on our woods, songbirds and crows
circling above the smolder, the men dancing
hot feet on embers crackling, the wind’s howl

dreaded:  perhaps a spark would howl
down into the village, set an aging barn blazing
then steadily leap through town, dancing
from roof to roof, and only by the grace
of lighting, of rain crackling across the crow’s
nest on a widow’s house, not fleecy

clouds, but thunderheads setting the night howling
against the bright and thundering blaze
against the small men and women dancing
in the rain, celebrating this moment’s grace
until the calm coming of dawn, of cock’s crow,
of calm flocks standing, damp fleeces

drying in the sun, whitening to snow-pure fleece
our flocks safe here as no wolf had howled
for a dozen years and more, our hunters crowing
at their victories, at their gun’s blaze
at gentle and fierce alike, all meat, table grace
before us and after as we said grace dance

heads bowed, breathing deeply in the dance
of our God, God of shepherds, pasture, fleece
blankets on our beds, wind dancing grace
full fall and winter coming, or had we howled
down one winter and now await spring blazing
our fields to life—overhead the crows

tell us nothing of the season, they crown
all skies, all light and darkness grace
to them, the black of their feathers blazing
as much as the purest white of the fleece
of the lamb of God. Let hunger howl
we may whisper, knowing we will dance

tomorrow, laughing at your graceful
trees, laughing at even the great clumsy crows,
at the raucous rooster howling
as he struts his foolish barnyard dance,
as his red comb flashes against the white fleece
of his neighbors, as even the blaze

on the crowned forehead of the little red heifer howling
for her mother, her heart blazing with fear, hooves dancing
in the grace of the barn, the peace of snow falling, fleece falling

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