Elise Talmage Lieb (1922-2013)
At the auction I sat
in a special seat,
since no other women bid.
Five skinny cows were driven in,
and I thought of the grass at home;
I bought the cows and had them hauled,
but I was too late for one.
She dropped a calf in our bottom land
and weakly walked away.
The tiny calf laid still on the ground and
the farmer said to bash its head.
“Not on my farm.” and we carried it home
and laid it on straw in the kitchen.
The motherless calf didn’t move
though we poured milk down its throat.
My granddaughter watched and I said to her,
“Pray for the calf, it is all we can do.”
The next morning the calf stood up
on shaky legs, and gazed at us;
She was gold and white with soft brown eyes.
Some days, it seemed, the motherless calf
turned its face away from life.
We dosed her up with antibiotics
while the calf became a pet.
She would bump at my husband’s legs
like her mother’s udder; we gave her her bottle.
then she pranced around,
enjoying the sun and the green grass of spring.
“She isn’t any good, the farmer said.
“much too small, much too small.”
Then she disappeared.
We called and called.
“Someone stole her,” the farmer said.
But I sensed the truth that she was dead,
and I reckoned how he thought,
“No profit in that calf, no profit.”
His mind obsessed with necessity,
he dwelt with beauty
he could not see.
.
.
.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This poem was respectfully submitted by Lieb’s daughters, Katherine van Wormer and Flora Stuart.
