The Peace of Cows
Laura Grace Weldon
I forget to be wholeness
on this cold afternoon.
Mired in tight circles
scribed by our species’ crusade
to greed-eat the planet, I feel despair’s thick
vines root in my gut, climb into my throat.
I remind my body
to relax into gratitude
but that door stays shut
so I open another
walk out back
where winter pastures entice our cows.
They stand complete in themselves,
stoked by inner furnaces, thick with calm.
I lie close to them on frosted grass,
face skies layered as skeins of gray wool.
The peace of cows holds me
like gravity, settles in my cells,
while something in me lifts,
trembles into light.