Ode to Cradle Farm

Ode to Cradle Farm

Now, the baby had been born.

Tom Kit was his name,

his hair was

rugged brown.

Tom Kit fell

many times,

in travels,

on Cradle farm.

He stole ants

from the slate,

while they where busy

in their work.

He pulled

cat’s tail,

not knowing

she owned it 

as it brushed 

by his nose one day.

Young Kit, flushed red hens

from the coop,

and wondered

why eggs broke,

when he stood on them.

He watched his father

on a tractor, ride a cloud

in the soy.

The birds found

food in the stir he made.

Tom felt

warm hands

find his neck

and squeeze his ears.

Mother was his

ocean,

and he fell back into her.

Tom Kit slept,

while the cat

caught her breath,

and the ants

marched back to oak.

The little heart

kept a beat,

just next to hers,

a twitch,

a peep,

Tom Kit sleeps.

2001 gjh