The Sheep Who Fastened the Sky to the Ground

After I found out that you were a sheep, it was always afternoon, and I stood trembling at the pasture fence, my hands full of dandelion and the longer grasses. How could I call you to come near? We had no names and only this place, this sun, the hill and its limitless sky held together by your gentle outline as you leaned toward tufts of grass. How beautiful you were, so still, so close to moving. I gathered bouquets of clover, strung violets from the fence slats. Sometimes I whispered, but the words disappeared before I knew what they were or what they meant. Once I saw darkness. I remember my eyes were open and there was nothing, only black, and my heart aching as I felt for my face and I was still human. While I cried, stars came and traced sheep in the sky and the voice that knew never spoke. I fell asleep mistaking the scent of hay for your breath. To wake once from the sleep in which you are held, in which your name emanates without utterance from the being that cradles you—There is no other sleep. Now it is always afternoon. How can I call you when we have no names? I search for the clover and violets. There are always enough. My shadow is always the same length and shaped with arms and legs. Between us, the distance of field is green and exact; the sun gleams from its cloudless height—I know that there is enough time, that there is always enough. Please. Come to me, remember me: undo this world.