Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.
(Ted Kooser)
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Based on Topics: Night Poems, Light Poems, Nature Poems, Name Poems, Past PoemsBased on Keywords: bucket, feasting, grazing, foamy, stanchion