Fall 1983 • Vol. V No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1983 |

The Ram’s Story

The shepherd who cut me out of my dead dam Bore me among the rocks and at a spring Washed off the tell-tale blood, then left the lamb To gambol in a timeless rendering Of mist and hillside, white upon the green. I sucked a ewe whose twins were dead at birth. Soon showers washed the dome of April clean, And distant mountains sprouted from the earth. I sprouted horns. The windless days grew dry. Light poured in billows down the mountain pass. At last I heard a voice that seemed to cry: "In higher pastures grows the greenest grass. The Lord of Fleeces tends his silver flocks Upon the mountain. Follow me away." I strayed. I climbed. The path among the rocks Curved back for one last look. The rising day Was silent; the horizon grew and spread Below me. In the afternoon I slept; Then higher, where the voice and pathway led. In fear of wolves and hidden cliffs, I crept Under the peak. The thicket trapped my horns Before I saw the men. "Behold a ram," The angel said. Hands wrenched me f

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