The soft glory of being


The deers are not likely to come by this time of year

too cold for them exposed in cleared field

each morning she strained to see

not wearing her glasses incase they were not real

bidding magic requires another kind of sight

would they?

turning like red figures against thimbled alabaster

washing through low winter light

emerge long enough to reward

the little girl who stayed up nights

she believed then in miracles

and the warmth of hands

enclosed on winters sleep

revealing moments of pleasure

for drousy children to wonder at

the soft glory of being