FIFTIETH  ANNUAL

  

The dainty little goat

licks my hand as I stretch into her stall

to scratch behind her elegant ears:

 

I, who have been her father and mother,

sister and brother, lover and friend,

through all the twists and turns of Samsara.

 

She stands upon her hind legs.

I draw back my arm, pleased

at such rapport with the animal world.

 

From the corner of my eye a poster

warns the crowd at the County Fair:

“Wash your hands if you touch the livestock.”