Let me tell you how today, filled
with fancy, she fell to her face,
with eau de earth, eau de clover,
eau de grasshopper, worm, beetle,
romping in the grass, in the salubrious air
thick with spring and all things new.
And scattered throughout our adjoining acre,
a thousand white dandelions,
the heads of old men nodding,
hardly hanging on to every last hair.
She wanted to go there, roll in that field, too,
release all those seeds into the atmosphere—
kicking up a sweet and wild bouquet
and her own gleeful sneezing
as they’d float like feathers in the breeze,
land like snowflakes on her black coat.
O, that Labrador look, that side-slung tongue,
those boisterous, brown eyes that yes, I’ll just say it,
embody bliss. What luxury
here on the green lap
of Ohio, here and nowhere else,
I tell you today and no other day.
This poem first appeared in Sou'Wester and appears in Moore's manuscript, Scandal of Particularity.
Used here with the author’s permission.