Midnight in the countryside
disturbed only
by the sound of poets and deer.
Each approaches cautiously
as if my awareness of them

will send them dashing.
All I long for is to touch
nose to nose, poet to poet,
word for word to form a sentence.
There is nothing to be frightened of.

There are only trees, buds
daring to believe spring has come.
There are only seasons
telling me my life is among them,
born, then curious, then full, then gone.
They will come to stare in the window.
I have nothing to offer them, a passing.
They will eat anyway.

Mark McNease

© 2011