Cyclical

i drive by the same dead deer every day,

observe the progress of slow decay,

try not to look too closely, press the gas just

a little harder. death has become a spectator sport.

i should not be audience to this.

the guilt comes quickly, and no matter how much

i remind myself i didn’t do this,

i am still driving a car (like the one that killed her)

down a road that cuts through the woods where she used to live.

i wonder how much of the world’s surface is paved.

i wonder why there is no road cutting my home in half.

i didn’t do this.

and this is not the big picture, this is not a grand statement.

it’s another dead deer. they die all the time.

everything comes to an end, but the trees grow leaves again in the springtime,

if they are not cut down first.

and the doe will bear a fawn in the springtime,

if she is not cut down first.