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, in necessity, the light-footedness
of
fawns.
Someone left a lily on my doorstep, eggshell white with specked
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.
About the AuthorC. J. Sage serves as Managing Editor of Disquieting Muses. Her poems appear most recently in The Threepenny Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, The Seattle Review, and Light Quarterly. Her book of poems, Let's Not Sleep, is forthcoming in January 2002.
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