Summer 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 1996 |

For a Friend Whose Love Has Left

For a week now, the deer has been roamingthe neighbor's sloped and wooded yard, dipping his antlers to leaf and blade. The neighbor talks to him, and though parts of the shrubs are vanishing, and the roses will be gone if this keeps on, the neighbor's voice is kind,low, almost wooing. Yesterday afternoon, the deer layin the grassy path below the scrub oaks,and the neighbor, talking low, moved almost near enough to touch him. This morning more deer came, a doe and two fawns.The neighbor, out for the morning paper, greeted them all with such warmthI half expected the deer to wavetheir thin legs, or smile. But they only moved their heads with a slight sway of the proprietary, waiting until he'd gone to dip their heads and eat again. They've come because the hills are dry.They bring him calm, the neighbor says. Here and there they've eaten branches bare, but still, he hopes they'll stay until the rains. Then another year will end. Across the bay, you'll watch the hills give way to green

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Four Poems

By Gary Young

For a week now, the deer has been roamingthe neighbor's sloped and wooded yard, dipping his antlers to leaf and blade. The neighbor talks to him, and though parts of […]

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