My father roused us out of bed
at 5 a.m.
to milk the fat udders
of the cows.
Down the path to the shed
we stumbled
just as day broke
over the hills.
This was long before
the arguments, the shouting,
divorce,
kids slapped around
from country to city
at the whim of some dull-eyed judge.
This was when
pure white bubbled
at the touch of a teat,
when you could have sworn
the horizon gushed from
the swift hands of our milking.
John Grey
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