Bella

Being an urban dreamer, I took a break from immersing myself in a novel of 19th century European hardship and contemplated what it might have been like.

Bella
       by Odin Roark

The air is cold
I wash the udder with warm water
Milking begins

Bella
So giving
Her liquid life ever faithful
Even as she bears aloneness
Day and night

Straw
An icy water bucket
Her only friends
Until milking time

Is there warmth and tenderness here
Does she dream at times
Fleeting memories
Perhaps sun on her back
Green grass between her teeth
Fly and mosquito agitation
Seasonal parts of her life

What of the calf
Once hers
Pressed lovingly against her legs
Warmth and tenderness
Enjoying fragrances only mother and child can know

I look up
Her brown eyes blink
Our mute conversation pauses
Both knowing another winter day
Has passed

She sighs
Memories rising from
Her heavy body
Driven beneath the cold
Deep into her sluggish bloodstream
Preserved in summer's hideaway

I stand
Stroking her large head
Scratching the roots of her horns
Rendering huge moist eyes to linger
We reconnect
Even though
We'll never know much of each other

Lifting the bucket of warm milk
I lean in and whisper
You are loved dear Bella
Truly

I step outside
Darkness sets in
Like the eyelid of despair
Closing without desire to open

At my heels
The cat tilts her head
Her tongue anticipating

Bella settles
Holding faithfully to
Night's ever promising pledge
Tomorrow's dawn will come