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    The Deer in December

     

    by Tammy Robacker

     

    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.

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