The Far Meadow

The Fall I was back home
walking the woods each afternnoon,
ambling the remembered paths
past the pond,
the low hills,
across the wide old log
spanning the blackwater creek.

One late day
as I was leaving the woods for home,
pulled by the heaviness there,
you ran past
and called,
toward my downcast face,
“Deer running in the far meadow.”

And so through the falling dusk,
I turned my steps,
and took the shortcut
past the sugar house,
along the treeline,
and the deer ran past me,
wild and beautiful
in the last light.

I came every day after that,
as Fall wore away to winter,
as the leaves drifted down,
turned brown,
crackled underfoot,
and every day
you, whoever you were,
called out to me,
where the deer ran.

I missed days at Christmas
but returned with my good fortune
on New Year’s day,
but you, whoever you were,
were gone.

I moved away soon after,
and wandered different woods.

But I want to tell you,
you, whoever you were,
that no matter how many stones
we cast or carry,
the deer are running
in the far meadow.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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