The shepherdess is out of breath
while gathering wool beneath an overborne sun,
stooping near the Valley of the Shadow of Death
to gather armfuls while the lambs, nearby, run,
and though memories are warm and soft
against her sagging, mottled breasts
they weigh too much to hold aloft
and so she sits with them a-lap, while she rests;
her legs dangling over that dark valley of mystery
and, gazing down, she wonders how far is the fall,
but thinking the fleece will cushion her misery
she leans forward, into that shady pall…

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