A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature with over 20,000 daily subscribers and over 8,000 archived posts.
This time it did not begin with the beaver
Instead a little further up the mountain
Where the sheep we keep each year come through
Winter enough to answer us, enough
For us to shear, deft before the coming storm,
To take away from the body what it did not know
It grew and then astonished each spring to feel
The quickening of the lamb, the heft of
Sudden weight crossing one more patch
Of snow. All with an eye out
For the cougar or some such animal
Of which the DNA is no longer
What it might have been, the coyote now
As part dog part wolf
Already commonplace. We have come to know the truth
As no longer true— the old ways do not work
Against the new. How to reconcile the bear
As she wakes to what we now call ours
And how to prepare for the unforeseen
As we throw each sheep handily on their back
To begin at the belly— fleece to shear,
To wash, and pick, to card, to bale, to weigh,
To the depot where all will be spun, dyed
Into the wool we want, knowing it can be done
Again and again without much death,
For the sheep she rises, shakes herself
Back into where she was before: grass, lamb;
Watches until we have pulled away,
As we head back down the mountain—
And in something like ability, or capacity,
The condition of being human, or female,
Or both, we want to knit this out, into
Dawn light, into a long stream
Of making sense, into where we will go next,
Into skeins of design and colors
Of what blood can mean, pinks
Such as rose or carmine, wanton or nearly red,
Timid or raw, healing or newly born,
Scarlet, blaze, bloom, or shell, or blush,
Like the small fingers of a wakening child,
Each stitch to repeat, purl and dispatch,
To get this done, and into that which
We can call sustainable, so those from behind
Can choose from the many hues; likewise
To walk forward with covered or uncovered heads.
~~~~

Sophie Cabot Black grew up on a small farm in New England. She has three poetry collections, The Misunderstanding of Nature, which received the Poetry Society of America’s First Book Award, The Descent, which received the 2005 Connecticut Book Award, and The Exchange, which NPR calls “the book for you”. Her poetry has appeared in numerous magazines, including The Atlantic Monthly, The New Republic, The New Yorker, and The Paris Review.
Copyright 2024 Sophie Cabot Black. From Geometry of the Restless Herd (Copper Canyon, 2024). Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.
Deft enjambments! I like the links, stanza to stanza!
LikeLike
Sophie has perfect craftsmanship.
>
LikeLike
“The condition of being human, or female,
Or both, we want to knit this out, into
Dawn light, into a long stream
Of making sense” Oh!
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is spectacular!!! The enjambments alone are pure genius; I’m reading this over and over. Music plus meaning: what could be better? What a poem. Brava, Sophie!!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I agree, Laurie. This is a great poem.
>
LikeLiked by 1 person
Musical and tactile. Love this
LikeLiked by 1 person
What a poem, the assonances & alliterations, the cadence, the stories it tells, the intensity of it all, its wisdom & intelligence: Bravo Sophie!
LikeLiked by 2 people
I completely agree.
>
LikeLiked by 2 people
Oh, how I love this poem. Astonishing in its exuberance and telling. Sheer magic of form. I note the two very long sentences to start and finish, the two shorties for the center. It’s a story teller rising above the slaughter of beavers, to a symbiotic relationship with sheep, to descend to the finale of woolen hats. With a changing, challenging world along the way. Great stuff.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I agree, Jim. Sophie’s poems are the perfect music of the heart.
>
LikeLiked by 1 person