Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier (Artist Website), Redwood Forest, 2021
Digital photograph
And now, from
behind trees, a deer
enters the grove
—and the grove
holds it.
Where are we?
Behind us, a farm
morning; yes, its gild,
yes, of grass slow-
bending and low sun.
Nostalgia, as wind
might, from far off,
bristles and chills,
gospels the arm hairs:
a private beauty,
and quiet.
Breakable, as the heart
was, once.
When it still mattered
—standing, shoulder
to shoulder, in a field.
When it was its own
revelation.
You know, you say, hand
pistoled, zeroing in
on the doe, talking
ain’t necessarily
loving
~flick
~bang
and loving ain’t necess…
but I am already gone,
struck and, for a moment,
still standing
—feathergrass in wind,
slanted light through clouds
of midges and gnats—
watching the doe watching
us: two stillnesses, tall,
taller than the grass. Nothing,
though, against
the curtain of pines.