Following the Deer

 For Liz

We follow the deer
Through the skeletons of tall grasses,
Arms raised above our shoulders
To avoid the unwanted advances of their brittle fingers.
The wind restores a fleeting life
And their dry, rasping voices
Whisper to us stories of death--
Of winter's frigid grasp that came and stole
Their lives, slowly and inexorably;
Of their burial--so final beneath more snow than we've had in decades.
The wind stills, and we hear only the crunching
As we watch our carefully placed steps
Destroy what signs of their lives are left.
But there, at our feet, the story is continued
Without words.  Shoots of green, rising from the heart
Of each wrecked remain, mutely shout that only in dying can we live.


The deer travel onward in search of refreshment,
And we follow, coming to rest on the trees that reach out
Over the quietly flowing water.  They look glad for
The company, and stir in stately greeting.
They seem to sense our weariness and understand
The burdens that plague our souls, for
They begin to speak.  In creaky, yet inexplicably
Dignified voices they tell of standing for a lifetime--
Alone, on the edge, where few dare to stand.
Even their bark shivers, as they recall the lashings
They've withstood throughout the changing
Seasons.  "Simply endure," they advise.  When asked
What makes their steadfastness bearable, they gently
Draw our attention to their intertwined
Branches and trunks, polished smooth by
Years of rubbing.  "By holding each other up we
Survive the storms and the loneliness," they murmur in reassurance.

There, under the trees that have stood patiently
Since before we were born, we talk of
Redemption--how our bodies
Can only pour out so much grace
Before they run dry.  And how sometimes
A whole creek is needed instead.

Warm breezes flutter past; the stream babbles
Quietly to itself; shadows slowly fall.
Strengthened by following the deer,
We take our own path home.