Milk

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Milk

Bright sunlight coming through the curtains
woke him up at dawn.
He burnt his tongue on the first sip
of strong black coffee
cursing, he heard the commotion outside
the cows were up near the barn
bellowing to be milked.
Hurrying towards them he crossed the large field
wildflowers met his eye and he inhaled
the rich smells of the farm welcomed him.
Opening the barn door he let his ladies inside
like a clumsy square dance
each one found their own stall
every day they did this without fail
then stood munching hay
calling out to one another.
The rhymic pumps were making short work
gathering milk from the herd
while he shoveled manure into a wheel barrel
before it could pile up.
Finished, the satisfied heifers headed out
to green grass and daydreams only cows know
while he sprayed down the barn for tomorrow
then headed to the vegetable garden.
Each row got it’s dose of manure
shovel full of compost and tender loving care
being a farmer was hard work and early hours
but nothing else would do.
Back at the house his day done
he sat back in his easy chair smoking his pipe
smoke curling around him like dreams.
Bright sunlight coming through the curtains
woke him up at dawn.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2016

Written with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads.

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18 thoughts on “Milk

  1. smoke curling around him like dreams.
    Bright sunlight coming through the curtains
    woke him up at dawn.

    The satisfaction of making it out with the land and tending on it the very next day. What many are not privileged to do these days. Very much so Bekkie!

    Hank

    Liked by 1 person

  2. loved the ambiguity of life within and without the dream – this poem has a very nice rhythmic metre for the reader and words painterly enough to see this day-in-the-farmlife – charming especially “like a clumsy square dance
    each one found their own stall”

    Liked by 1 person

    1. So true Sherry it’s a shame what’s happened to farmers they’ve had a tough time of it. My relatives once farmed like this in Wisconsin which is where the memories come from first hand.

      Like

    1. That’s because it came from memory. My uncle had a dairy farm just like this when I was a kid, my grandpa was also a farmer and smoked a pipe. Most of my relatives in Wisconsin had farms of some sort and I loved growing up on them.

      Like

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