came once again
to see off dawn
and welcome in
the daylight starkness.
The tiny porker
on his back
one chubby foot
on mothers teat,
the one that is
reserved for him.
A ray of sun
steals through
the cracks
of weather-worn
and aging alder
illuminates a dusty cloud
of those who would,
well justified,
take up their space
in weightless air
above and in between,
unfolding life
which like a burst
of foul and earthy
yet so pleasant
aromas sees
the light of day.
There is so much
this world can offer,
a plentitude
so overwhelming
but in the straw
with milk moustache
and warmth of Mama,
next to brothers
and sisters
sleeping happily
his choice is easy
no thought of thrill
adventurous excursions
has captured him
no barnyard siren
entrances with her lusty song.
And while he suckles
grunts and smacks
a pipsqueak of a turd
makes its appearance
wormlike and soft,
with grace it winds
its rosy path
down onto sister’s
sleepy head.
And briefly
with a smiling yawn
he settles back
and feels it all
oh that those brothers
Mist and Fog
would now return
and never leave.