Ekphrasis of A Uterus

The shape appears on the side of our old barn 
where a patch of shadow has left an impression 
into the grey, weather-beaten wood.  It was made 
by an oak tree— older yet, with branches elegantly 
arched like woody umbrellas, standing before the barn, 
casting a remarkably female form into the wall 
like a sun print, the subtraction of light illuminating 
that familiar pear-shaped organ with two stems that 
sprout from the sides into round, ovary-like circles. 
 
I remember how we once wrapped chains around 
the dangling legs of a Jersey calf— half born 
from his mother, stuck between this side and the other 
side of the moon, pulled him with the tractor onto the floors 
where he lay in a pool of fluids and blood, eyes open, 
stunned until his mother woke him with her lowing.
 
Beneath the shadows, there is a mother inside 
every living and unliving thing—her image branded 
into our sides, her shape the mold we had to break, 
the sound of her calling resonating into our bones, 
heavy in the rays of midday sun.