When sheep realize
They can relamb; some
Are too late, eaten again.
Some dissimilate, some just grin,
Some sum selfs, flying, again.

(I would love a dust-bunny
To rear its head, to shake its
Red-gold ears, to cut them off,
With love, to tide tiny wigs over
Bald heavens, loved ever with so much
Soul, it hurts so bad to be loved so much…)

Why do sheep realize
They can relamb; aren’t
Too late, freedomed again?
Some aggregate, some just live,
Sum so selfish, passed again.

(I would love a dust bunny,
Until it died. Would shake my head,
When others asked why, just loved
Them all, with so much love to love
Over everything, smothered ever so much,
Still, it hurts so bad to love so much…)

When will my sheep recreate
Fields of relambing? Some
Sheep are late, beaten again,
Some evaporate, some just leave.
Selfs some sum, it hurts pass loved, again.

(I’ll always love dusty-bunnies, always have,
She passed away, into that after, so did
I, with others. We can’t cut off love, anymore,
Them are gone, here is now, there is love,
Without nothing, forgotten so much,
Soft not, it hurts too bad to be love…)

When my sheep recreate, Katy will be there,
She was love, relambed and pure-ly fun.
Some lambs cavort and thumb wooly-fuzzy noses,
Some precipitate, some cross our minds,
When esses equal hate, rewired…

I will love a dust bunny. Allways.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 4/16/10

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