Dave Bonta's "Ox" is a tiny poem that talks to its subject directly. The speaker calls out "o ox," then immediately notices how little the word seems to hold: just two letters, and one of them is a circle. Set against that is the animal itself, which the poem links with "so much quiet." The ox, as the speaker sees it, is patient, heavy and silent.
The last two lines are the most puzzling and the most interesting. "Part draft, part ore" seems to pull in two directions. "Draft" can suggest a draft animal, one that pulls loads, but it also means a rough first version of something written. "Ore" is raw material waiting to be refined. So the ox becomes both worker and raw matter, something not yet finished.
The mood is hushed and affectionate, with a little wonder. The speaker doesn't explain or judge. They simply address the animal and let the sounds of the words do the work, which leaves the reader with a calm, slightly mysterious feeling.