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