The Lamb That Waited

Beneath a sky like torn white linen,

on a pasture soft with morning dew,

a lamb stood waiting—small and silent,

wrapped in innocence, perfect and true.

She knew no fences, feared no thunder,

only followed where the clovers grew.

She trusted hands and laughed at rainstorms—

the world, to her, was always new.

I saw her first beyond the hedgerow,

a blur of wool, a drifting cloud.

She blinked at me with still-born wonder—

no bleating, no fear, no sound aloud.

She came to me on trembling ankles,

the breeze itself seemed to bow and hush.

I knelt as if to meet a prayer,

and fed her gently, soft and rushed.

Her eyes held sky the color of silence,

as if the stars had melted down.

Each blink a question left unanswered,

each breath a story, yet unwound.

She'd tilt her head at dandelions,

then chase their ghosts into the blue.

She didn’t know the weight of endings—

her world was stitched in mornings new.

Each day she waited by the thistle,

near the rock that split the hill.

She'd greet my voice with quiet stillness,

and in her calm, the world stood still.

No chain, no rope, no whispered calling—

she simply came, as if she knew.

Some bonds aren’t made with words or hands,

but bloom like flowers soaked in dew.

We shared the breeze, the light, the silence,

the hush of fields before the storm.

She taught me joy inside still moments—

a different kind of keeping warm.

I read to her beneath the willow,

old tales of stars, of sea, of flame.

Though lambs don’t speak, I felt her listening—

and somehow, I believed she came.

I showed her nests and stones and feathers,

the broken watch I’d never wear.

She watched me build a world from nothing,

and seemed to love just being there.

But seasons turn with no permission,

and fields grow dry, and shadows thin.

The lamb grew tall, the sky grew colder—

and I grew restless deep within.

I saw her step beyond the grasses,

toward hills I’d never dared to tread.

Her gaze would linger—just a moment—

then drift like clouds that overhead.

One morning came with ash and silence,

no bleat, no step, no snowy head.

Just hoofprints circling empty clover,

where once she stood—was absence instead.

I called her name I never gave her,

I wept for silence never heard.

The air stood still, the clouds hung lower—

the world had shifted, undisturbed.

The wind blew wild, the willow aching,

its branches reaching without aim.

I stood among the ghosts of laughter—

and called, though knew she wouldn’t came.

I searched the hills and sat by rivers,

I wandered paths we never walked.

I left behind the tin bowl’s shimmer—

the stories ended where they stopped.

I told the grass what I remembered,

and watched it fold into the breeze.

The earth, though silent, seemed to listen—

and answered only through the trees.

The willow swayed with breathless sorrow,

as if it too had felt her go.

The clover bent beneath its silence—

as if the earth itself would know.

No trace remained except the knowing

of something gentle once passed through.

A warmth still lingered in the meadow,

a ghost of trust, a shade of true.

The world moved on. The fields grew taller.

The sky forgot its woven grace.

Yet I returned, like some old echo,

to find her in that sacred place.

She wasn’t mine, but still I claimed her—

in the hush between the winds.

Some goodbyes are spoken softly

through the way the silence ends.

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