Inside a snowy blanket which put the trees to sleep,
I heard a fawn.
Out past the window’s ice coat in the morning, I
found a sleeping fawn.

There are men in yellow kitchens watching hands of
brown-eyed women
while men in orange jackets dream in secret, of
capturing a fawn.

When I was younger I was taught, but have forgotten,
sweet timidity.
When I am older I will learn, by necessity, the
light-footedness of fawns.

Someone left a lily on my doorstep, eggshell white
with speckled leaves;
the card of introduction said the flower’s name was
Fawn.

Sages wonder if it’s possible for men to turn to
animals.
I wonder if they’ve pondered the agility of fawns.

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