I sang to the brown sheep
that she might finally die, not
keep lying, hay-covered,
against the cold during that long
in-between strong animals endure.
I sang in tune, made-up lullabies;
I sang to her blindness and staggered gait,
her Navajo rug fleece
and the way she loved her sweet feed
with extra corn and salt.
She was born here, and now
I ask her to be like any elder
taking that long step into open time.
If she could lift her head
and speak with mouth or eyes,
she would, I think, tell me to leave.
I’m in the way.
She knows her last breath
is around the dusty corner, knows
where mine is, and yours.
