a poem for paris and the deer who lives in my field

by rebecca on November 23, 2015

Post image for a poem for paris and the deer who lives in my field

On My Way to Take a Photo of the Fence Post I Get Distracted

Retracing my steps, I knelt
prayerfully surveying
each pellet left by the deer who lives
in my barn. I noticed
each whisper of frost glimmering
in the sun, now rising over the shadowed hillside,
I was captivated by tiny crystals of frost
and how they were kissing
each and every piece of neatly
stacked pooh.

Precious gems of ice
are created when the temperature drops
quickly. Suddenly.
Captivating the dew point frozen
in time.

frosty pooh closeup 480
I left for the field and was surprised
by the frost kissed pooh
just after abandoning
the heat of NPR and reports of Paris
bombings.
A cousin’s husband died on 9/11.
She kissed him goodbye
that day and he never
came home. I am aware
that more mothers of children
suffered that fate anew.
It is tempting for me to investigate
the hate I have for people who plant
these bombs.

But instead “Wait, Wait” comes on the radio
as I return inside and I hear the host
offer hint after hint
to this octogenarian.
While she takes the quiz I relax
because he practically gives his guests the answers.
It is such human decency
and my bottom lip quivers in the face of this generosity.
She doesn’t take the bait
however, and answers incorrectly.

sunlit grass
What motivates his parting assurance?
“But you can stand tall
as you introduce yourself in restaurants.”
Perhaps he thinks about how she will hear
herself if ever she listens
to a replay of this show? Just plain grace?
I wonder.
These meditations are more mysterious
than glittering frost on pooh.

Back in my field, where I shiver
a single blade of sun drenched grass
stands up against the horizon line of day’s break.
A black shadow is hiding much of the hill.
I crawl, sacrificing my belly because
the photo is crucial
when the news about Paris
is grim.

A tender host, the sun
and frosty deer remnants
are essential
when the hillside looms
so very dark.

frosty grass closeup 480
Here is the Wait Wait link. An enormous thank you to Rosemerry who helped me with this poem, to my poetry workshop at WCWF, to Sue Ann, whose blog this week inspired me to post this instead of letting it sit in a drawer, and to the deer who lives in my barn. My heart reaches toward those in Paris.

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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }

Sue Ann Gleason November 23, 2015 at 12:30 pm

I love this post, Rebecca. To be able to find beauty in nature and in humanity is so important right now. Some turn to prayer, I turn to poetry. xxoo

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Allison November 25, 2015 at 10:13 pm

I love this. My favorite is the barest image of you, belly on the ground, capturing this photo because. . . because. . . when you ponder the mysteries (miseries and joys) of human life, you only get more questions. But when you focus on the mysteries of nature — why should poo ever be so beautiful? why does this fragile-looking, bendy blade of grass make me ache with its beauty? — you only feel peace and gratitude. Really well done.

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