White Track
Snow paved paths white as deer tails
curve between Queen Anne skeletons
blooming with frost in February.
Cloven prints like pointed hearts cut
from sugar dough mince along the cryptic aisle,
immaculate impression until the melt.
I stay on paths beaten by deer
to protect my skin from thorns --
black locust, wild blackberry, multiflora rose.
Rime transforms every weed into etched
crystal candelabra, intricate lace on the altar
of limbs, yet thorns beneath lace still pierce.
A doe, delicate legs tucked under,
a heart's beat off the path
lifts her head but does not bolt.
Through veils of breath we regard each other --
her lambent eyes, mine
awed by grace.
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