A fleece arrives in a black plastic bag
in a brown cardboard box
and unfolds in one piece
on the porch like a white buffalo rug.
The street is quiet at 10 a.m. and
she takes her time spreading the wool in the sun,
rustling out the dust.
The heat melts the lanolin.
Her arms glisten with it and smell of farm.
Soon she will make something of it.
But today
being in warm animal presence
is enough.
Small Poems de Terre 