37

A Birthday Poem
Ted Kooser

Just past dawn,
the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
ith his bucketfor the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.