Every morning the sad girl brings her three sheep <br />and two lambs laggardly to the top of the valley, <br />past my stone hut and onto the mountain to graze. <br />She turned twelve last year and it was legal <br />for the father to take her out of school. She knows <br />her life is over. The sadness makes her fine, <br />makes me happy. Her old red sweater makes <br />the whole valley ring, makes my solitude gleam. <br />I watch from hiding for her sake. Knowing I am <br />there is hard on her, but it is the focus of her days. <br />She always looks down or looks away as she passes <br />in the evening. Except sometimes when, just before <br />going out of sight behind the distant canebrake, <br />she looks quickly back. It is too far for me to see, <br />but there is a moment of white if she turns her face. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Jack Gilbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/recovering-amid-the-farms/
