Monday, October 24, 2011


The eyes of the doe are perfect.
Large, luminous, liquid, lovely,
they reflect the world through which she walks
and yet do not reflect the world's nature,
for they are perfect,
and the world is not.
The eyes are pools of beauty,
and even deeper is the spirit behind.
The spirit knows things the doe cannot.

Her sistren are apt to be taken down
by those who speed through the world unmindful
of their impact on the gentle and the sensitive
and the beautiful.
But the spirit guides her clear.
The wolves are long gone from these parts,
the cougars barely a rumour,
but never having seen them, she picks her way through the woods
still aware.
No way to tell, looking at those eyes
brimming with innocence and wisdom,
how many winters she's seen,
or if she's seen winter at all.
The spirit has seen them all.

And yet even the spirit can be taken by surprise.

Cupid is not flitting around
flashing his pink bottom at the world
and making the woods ring with childish laughter.
Cupid is up a tree,
with paint on his face
and strips of rags hanging from his clothing
that move like leaves in the autumn wind.
And wary as she is
of wolf and cougar and all the hazards of the world,
not everything can be planned for.
And one day she will stand just so,
and the arrow may find its mark.

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