Old man at the window, deer in the dark,
Observing the waning-crescent moonrise
Running just ahead of an amber dawn.
What do you want, reader, from them, from him?
Something simple and uplifting, something
Personal, emotional, grieving, raw?
Something speaking to your experience?
You don’t need to be told the moon rises.
You don’t need to know the deer are out there
Browsing lawns and golf courses, dodging cars,
Dying on the highways like people do,
Moving into the mountains when it’s hot.
Nonetheless, the old man thinks about you,
At his window in the floating daylight.
If you come to this poem, knock on his door.
There’s something he badly wants to tell you,
Something he believes you’re desperate to know,
But now he’s old and can’t remember what.
He’ll be home.