Till the Cows Come Home

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Till the Cows Come Home:
After Yet One More Stint With Our Youngest Son
By Patricia S. Cook

For fifty years I have been driving them
like a dog barking, nipping at their heels;
like a boy with whatever is at hand--
pebbles, sticks, small stones--going after them.

At an awkward lope bawling half-heartedly,
every now and then one turns on me though--
but abruptly will halt--and heavy plods on
at sunset evening after evening

back over the hills, across the creek, and down
year after year the last slope to the barn.
To warm stalls, filled troughs, fresh water and hay,
to communion with their own and other kind

I have been driving the men in my life--
father, husband, sons--been driving them home.