Shorn Again

A poem about spring and becoming.

A newly shorn black sheep stands in the foreground of a green pasture, looking at the camera. There is A fence to its right and trees and more sheep lying down in the back left.
Image licensed from Ruud Morijn, Adobe Stock

In spring
my fleece falls to the ground,
deeper and darker than the spring past
like the ink of every word
fear and distrust withheld
instead seeped into me,
saturating my wool
Still the black sheep, yet liberated
from the matted weight
of winter’s cold expectation that
hasn’t regard for a little lamb’s need
to frolic in pastures green with inspiration