Walking through a Deer

mid-May is sweetgrass flowering time

where willows meet the wet meadow.

Hierochloe odorata, first of grasses here

is circumboreal, holy to many

with one knee on a dry tussock and bending,

I sniff the pyramid-shaped panicle.

on three-flowered, magenta spikelets

green, bronze, silver and gold flecks

dance in the breeze and my unsteady fingers

then again

and again

and again

the florets are delightful

but offer nothing for the nose.

I find sweet

in a bit of taken leaf—sweet, vanilla-like!

it is vanilla grass to many

from a few inflorescences, I walk through a deer

that died in winter

and since, provided for all comers ....

threads and tufts of grey and white fur

—some already gathered,

taken and woven into bird nests

or, journeyed through coyote—

and bones with yellow bits

remain on a spongy table for picking

at raucous banquets

by visiting raven, crow, magpie,

blue jay, chickadee,

fox, coyote,

ground squirrel, mouse, vole,

ant, fly and invisible ones.

a black feather near the skull

that carried antlers a few months ago

and an intricate white spine

is perhaps a cheeky tip

or a respectful “thank-you”

a large, white-tailed deer flashed by me

here within arm’s reach

a year or two ago

in a startling moment

rushing from the road without seeing me,

running through me

on a trail it knew well, trusted

that it led to sanctuary in denser growth

or beyond, in another smaller meadow

where orange, black and white monarchs visit bergamot,

blazing star and goldenrod before they leave

—the deer-filled moment is enduring

my first deer

are in a family portrait

—a 1953 black and white—

taken at the botanical garden’s tropical house.

two of us, nearing four and six,

wear running deer across our chests

that are perhaps Hunor and Magor’s enchanted deer

—an image from medieval or biblical times,

from older pictograph or petroglyph,

or a grandmother’s story—knitted into our pullovers.

poised above our hearts

they are in full flight to unknown places

palm fronds form a dark background

above a lighter rock outcrop

and there are indistinct blossoms

or, orchids in a hanger

beside our mother’s face

—they could have been pink or yellow,

harebell blue or white.

rock, trees, leaves, flowers

are etched in degrees of grey

like our father’s, thirty-two-year-old’s, smile,

and the calm toddler...

the path is well worn

wide enough for an enchanted deer

but too narrow for a person.

leafing branches are closing the deer’s way

willow flowers are becoming cotton

then, like flying snow

they’ll form white drifts in new grass

with windblown seeds

of cottonwood, balsam and white poplar.

well-hidden birds deep in the willows

sing green shoots into flowers at the edge

helped with time’s coloured threads and delicate needlework:

early blue violet, wild strawberry

golden Alexander, Canada lousewort, pale comandra,

tall buttercup, northern ragwort, cancer root beside the bones,

Seneca snakeroot, small then large yellow lady’s slipper,

star-flowered false Solomon’s seal,

Canada anemone, pink pyrola

and shy, yellow, tufted loosestrife twins

shall each attend

by mid-June, burgeoning verdure

—large, green-and-grey, arrowleaf sweet coltsfoot leaves,

dark-green wire rush as thin as knitting needles,

bur reed and bentgrass—

shrouds the remaining hide, fur, bones, skull

and the keyboard of vertebrae

as it continues playing

silence-filled, winter music

born at the end of this deer’s flight

where catbird, mourning dove

and other birds continue singing,

deep-veined leaves are the prelude to orchids

growing in white calyxes.

under tangled branches,

they become pink and white slippers

and those that linger an extra week

will dance with music- and song-filled breezes

that find paths into the willows

at Folk Festival time.

then, delicate, white grass-of-Parnassus follow

as a celebration in the wet meadow

past their brief flowering,

absorbed in colour-dotted greens,

sweetgrass culms and leaves

like the deer remains

will be hidden until next May

with a sweetness newly found

in an arrived harbinger of nascence,

a purifier, pathfinder and messenger

I continue walking through a deer

at the willow edge

until goldenrods, John Franklin’s white

and all the blue asters,

fringed and closed gentian

yield their last nectar to bumblebee

and arrive at senescence

...and amazingly,

deer continue running through me