The Young Doe

Soft her silhouette she slips upon the darkened lawn,
And, backlit, moonlit; stealthily no larger than a fawn,
And I am seated breathlessly in shadow so subdued,
Those inner fine-tuned senses say that she is now reviewed.

The bitter cold, the arctic air, the wintry wind just blows,

All frozen time; unmoving now the deer with iced repose,
Yet slowly now she turns her head, oh what a beauteous sight,
And I remain as still as stone for fear of causing fright.

More sure of safe surrounding now she steps toward barren trees,

Then quickly starts to pick away each springtime bud she sees,
And for dessert she paused awhile upon the cedar hedge,
And unafraid she promenades toward towering forest’s edge.

And all at once behind the hedge unseen before my eye,

The largest antlered buck creeps in; for he’d been standing nigh,
Through shadows deep he looked at me as if to say, “Now Sir,”
“The doe was never e’er alone for I protected her.”

And nonchalant he saunters toward his watched and waiting mate,

Together once again they move through Nemestrinus’ gate,
How wondrous natures offerings; oh may they never cease,
These dusky hues and moonlit views bring quiet inward peace.

Peter Lowell Paulson

December 25, 2011