Once, I wrote a poem for a stag in a rather lot of trouble.
Something began from that moment. I didn't intent to let it end today... And I ended up writing a pair of poems for that stag in a rather lot of trouble. To some extent, they were to steady my own nerves, though.

[center]1. Your Wound

Your wound
leaks memories; deer caught in
his struggle, your wound
bleeds stories fading
the ground in splashes
of half-real fog-light.

I mumble dream-verses,
soak in hope to sponge
against your wounds:
do you remember, then,
those winters, those springs,
those talks of colors half-real,
longings we ourselves cannot devise?

Have these faded, too, into
the blood and the fog that eats
at your limbs? I press my head to your heart
longing still for its signal
that you will rise again, and days
will be as they were.


2. The War in the Fog


I spot you in the fog.
where your body presses, light splinters
in slender, wavering shafts. Your wound
is deep, and in the tremble of the air, howls
of fanged beasts rise, clawed
and fully ready. I wait, and bear your hope.

I feel their thunderhead-rising, and can only hope
to trick them from you in the fog:
oh, the futility of such escape, death and its claws,
but still, my fear is sharper, driven in my heart, a splinter
that you may not rise again, howls
at tornado pitch through me. I will wound

if I must, the sniveling beasts that wound
their way through the day, or so I hope:
has night already broken? The howls,
ceaseless. The bodies, lost in fog.
You and they are all alive; my words splinter.
Heartbeat. Earthquake. Courage. Claws.

They circle without meaning, avoiding the clawed
out sight of your chest, my heart's drop at your wound.
The crowd races and darts, recollects, bands, splinters,
organized only by the passing moment's will.

Buds of emerald peeped from the tips of twigs, once threadbare and worn from bearing heavy loads of snow. The blood of the trees was flowing again, bringing beautiful life to their branches, creating homes for the dewdrops to rest on. Wet and new, each leaf unfurled into a bright and sunny world. Free from snow, grasses awoke to a world that was so dazzling it made them dazzle as well. Thickets of brambles unveiled new sprigs of floral beauty to hide their angry thorns.

Spring was rising from the darkest time of winter.

Moss could hear the young rabbits peeping below the earth. He could see the nests from which young lives would be making their début as new generations in the sun. They would never be lean with hunger here. The brook would thaw and babble, telling any who would listen of the goings-on beneath its rolling surface. The water was too cold to be entered, and too cold to reflect the sky above.

Chirps and cries of songbirds filled what blue the forest's inhabitants could see. Their ears filled with the joyous noises, only for it to spill out of their mouths as they giggled and played, or flirted with one another beneath willowshade. Sometimes hormones did not remember seasons, and that winter did indeed come after autumn and not the other way around. This was mostly the case with the newly-adorned bucks and the does of similar season. All in all it was heartwarming to see these things among the new generation.

From his standpoint on the edge of their world, the stag couldn't help but smile to himself. His own hormones felt confused, as it was also his first spring as a deer, though he knew why that was. Moss's own mind was that of one seasoned well. White antlers moved through the air as he swiveled to peer toward a big tree, covered in mushrooms.

Indeed, none would go hungry.

A doe twitched in her sleep, a sense of forboding crawling over her. Nightmares didn't haunt her, but, for some reason, she felt the sneaking feeling of dread. Her heart pulsed under a beautiful light-brown coat, delicate ears flicking nervously.
An owl hooted in the darkness of the night, and the doe woke with a start. She felt confused at her own sneaking sense of dread. She gazed lovingly down at her son, thankful for his comforting presence.
But her son was not present. The doe gave out a call of alarm, scrambling onto her dainty hooves. Her eyes grew round with fear.
"Chital? Chital, where are you?!" the frantic doe cried, her herd rousing around her. Her mate, the leader of the herd, stood worriedly nearby, looking at the distraught doe.
"Gome, what's wrong?" he asked, calmly approaching the doe as she frantically searched under the bushes around their sleeping place. The other nursing does eyes were wide as they nestled their waking young ones close to them, nervously flicking their tails, while the stags paced around the sleeping place, pawing the ground and shaking their mighty antlers to warn off unseen invaders.
"Pivald, Chital is missing!" Gome exclaimed, choking up as she raced around, her heart thudding. She ignored the dark-brown stag leader as he tried to calm her by nuzzling her shoulder. Gome could sense that Pivald was also very nervous for their son, his false signs of comfort ment nothing.
"We'll find him, Gome, he couldn't have gotten far. I'll send out a search party at dawn," he cooed, trying to lead his distraught mate back to her hollow in the ground. Gome choked back a sob and collapsed into her sleeping hollow, nervousness shaking her to the core. What danger had befallen her son? Was it to late?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chital took short, gasping breaths as he tried to calm himself. His dad would find him.