Come to nose the fresh green growth, five deer
Beside subsiding waters stand calm not quick
To sail away in air when we come near.
They munch a mouthful more before they kick
Up muddy spray in flight that seems so slow,
Though they are deep in woods before she says,
“Time is an illusion in its flow,
Seeming slow and yet. . .” Within her pause
I add my spin, “Time doesn’t flow at all
But sometimes gives us slack to contemplate.”
“I wouldn’t take it there,” she says, “because
The deer were moving fast--our minds were late
To grasp.” Late to grasp defines our lives,
For in our final grasp no time survives.