This morning
two deer
in the pinewoods,
in the five a.m. mist,
in a silky agitation,
went leaping
down into the shadows
of the bog
and together
across the bog
and up the hill
and into the dense trees—
but once,
years ago,
in some kind of rapturous mistake,
the deer did not run away
but walked toward me
and touched my hands—
and I have been, ever since,
separated from my old, comfortable life
of experience and deduction—
I have been, ever since,
exalted—
and even now,
though I am estranged from the world,
I would not go back—
I would not be anywhere else
but stalled in the happiness
of the miracle—
every morning
I stroll out into the fields,
I believe in everything,
I believe in anything,
even if the deer are wild again
I am still standing under the dark trees,
they are still walking toward me.