Holy Cow

“By all means, add butter – REAL butter – and as much as you want. Deny yourself nothing that feeds your body and soul – butter and ice cream are two that come to mind without even thinking.” — The Breadmaker


I'm wondering how the neighbors will feel about

the new cow I’ve led to the garden.

She's the finest Holstein you’ll see;

white as church linen and black as the hour

before dawn. I'll sing her the sweetest

hymns of salvation from the Second

Great Awakening and whisper

how beautiful she is.

She’ll feed only on fine English roses

and their dew, and In return,

she'll fill bukets of such sweet milk.

My mother and aunt remember

how to make ice-cream, but

it’s all electric and runny;

I’ll have to summon the saints

for the butter churn scrolls,

and of course I’ll have to call work

on Monday to say cannot come back;

I’m digging a creek and I’m knee-deep

in cow shit. Which will be good for the roses.