Poems & Play

Two Deer Waiting in the Meadow

Two whitetails shelter under the pines, nestled in the long grass as thick flakes drift and fall
and weigh down the boughs.

They wait in silence, unblinking,
having fed all day in the brown fields, untroubled, unhurried, grazing among stone and wooden buildings.

The snow may not last the day.


A garage slumping sideways into dereliction of peeling paint and gaps in the walls, old tires and storm doors and a rusted grill. 
Fallen fences and empty ditches,
and a barn with the echoes of horses.

The deer know all this. 
They were born here.
They grew here. 
They will age here. 

The snow falls on. 
A cycle will end.

Inside the house full of baseball cards, battered books, and cat-scratched couches,
The hiss of air, rattles and tiny clanks.
Whispers weighted by the waiting.
The TV flickers in the corner. 

The longest night will pass.
The snow won’t fall forever. 
Green will flow in the meadows
as the fields reawaken.

The deer will wait. 
They have all the time they need.