Sparkle Plenty basked
in sunshine on the back hill,
no doubt chewed at grass,
whatever the world laid before her—
as is the way with goats.
Mrs. Knott painted her portrait,
an unusual happening for a goat,
and now Sparkle Plenty gazes
from her contented place
at me, at my desk.
Her black paint eyes announce
a placid wisdom as if in acceptance
of the death which will follow the loves
and pangs and pleasures of her existence.
What Sparkle Plenty knew stayed
inside her small goat brain—
about a daily warmth that fell
on her coat, about the sweetness
of the new lawn, about the gentle hands
that scratched the wish behind her ear.
