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Jefferson Community College Website


Brianna Siegrist

Why do cows have to smell like a dying diaper,
like a sewage pit,
when the world around is so green and so lovely?
Why do they ruin it with stink piles?
Why, tractors, why the noise?
Why grind gears and let your engine
drown out the song of the Cardinal?
Why, on a sunny afternoon, do the flies circle endlessly,
the big fat one hitting my cheek,
one crawling on the back of my arm
though I'm trying so hard to ignore them?
Is Eden so impossible?
I ask a few young heifers, contentedly grazing.
They lift their heads and blink their long lashes
and swish their tails and move along.
I ask a green meadow.
It is wide and silent, and sends a dragonfly to buzz like a tiny helicopter,
bringing me the smell of fresh cut alfalfa
from underneath a lazily turning windmill,
but it has no answer for me.
I ask the sun rising over the low distant mountains,
but it is busy dipping the grass in golden dew.
I ask the neighbors, but they wave from the cabs of their tractors
as they ride out to chop corn
leaving a dozen good brown eggs for my breakfast.
There is no use asking the maples;
in the spring, they will give only their nectar,
in the summer, only their shade.
In the autumn, their shocks of splendor.
There is no use asking the
snowy wonder that blankets the valley in January.
And the song of spring blossoms,
of tulips like bright balloons anchored in every yard
would drown out my words,
If I were still speaking.