There is a deer grazing
in our woods
behind the bunkhouse,
speckled with sunlight,
wandering in silence,
but for the slow rustle of leaves
under its hooves as it grazes
for blackberries.

It was much noisier here once:
children racing
on hard flat swings
and climbing the one-armed
oak that stood behind;
grownups shucking corn,
sipping cocktails;
voices chattering
in a million conversations

that never mattered
except that they happened
in this place
among these people
who would remember
and come to embody them.
No deer graced the back
of the bunkhouse then.

But here you are now,
making the woods both
light and somber at once.
In silence,
you hold all the things
that came before
that will come to be,
in our little woods,
in our little blackberry patch,
behind the bunkhouse,
bringing lightness
to the shadows.
and tell us what you see.

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