a deer parasailing across the gravel path,
not so high above the young grass shoots
sprouting in the midway as to leave them
without a brief simmering glance cast their way,
and now this doe has crossed the border
from this world to the next, and she blends
so smoothly into the wooded landscape
that he is unsure if, in fact, he dreamed her,
pondering as he is on Eurydice, and the piano
recital that he's been coerced into, one week
after his twelfth birthday, still a tender
young soul with dirt on his hands, all over
his knees, and somehow also caked in his hair.
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