The Deer in December
for my Father
Since your death,
my hard heart softens
in small measures.
Like the deer stepping
down into my yard,
he minces his feet
along my frosted garden
so tentative,
so carefully now.
As if you are sorry.
Dear brown-eyed,
remorseful creature
still coming around
for a daughter’s vestiges.
My forgiveness
parcels itself out
in pinchfuls of seeds.
I let you feed
on my pale winter
kale and weeds.