A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
The fawn was lost, it seemed to me, stumbling
through the foggy field and disappearing.
I went after it, not knowing why, thought
I might help somehow. Wanted to hold its fragile body
in my arms against all danger. I never found it.
Kept on through the tall grass, dew soaking my pants
until I emerged from the fog before a falling barn.
It seemed to lean from a wind that wasn’t there.
Inside, no fawn, but a box of toys tipped up
and strewn across the packed dirt floor.
Dolls, stuffed animals in disrepair. I had come
full circle from a point I could not remember.
I am the fawn and so are you. When we’ve given up
and let silence breed its muffled answers.
Copyright 2018 Doug Anderson