Reading Books of Hay

A bale of mostly red clover
before me.
Two strings crossing.
Knotted.
Beholding summer’s promise.
Cut them.
Decompressing,
a silent hiss, a reshuffling of sunlight,
the bale opens
in books,
sheafs of dry and sweet,
Ready,
Surging with green
and glory
for the flock
to ruminate upon.