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poetry

Life.

Picture of a deer.

Remaining, for the rains to clear,
after weeks, the final days,
whole world a round, in limbo,
behind the crest, primed, to be released
as nature relaxes her guard
reveals herself, one last time

Watching the opening, a confused tangle
of leafy twigs, nothing more, for hours,
pausing, often minutes without a breath,
the interminable ache, hunger,
now a blanket embraced, no room
for emotional stutter, only purpose.

Blending, pressed to ground,
gentle breeze on her face,
scent of the earth, reflecting,
waiting for the tell, a rustle,
betray another cause, a bird,
foraging, or curious fox,

In bursts, anticipation,
her view encircled, clean,
save the faint cross hairs
showing the course of fate, death
or life, the hesitation between

Simplicity, the beauty of a clear mind,
empty of thoughts, distractions,
her father’s words, ingrained,
patience passed on, discipline learned
and the respect the forest demands,
to be at one.

By cyncoed

Old & Welsh

2 replies on “Life.”

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