And I think maybe last I'll read the poem that
was made into a broadside here, which is called Written Deer
and which was inspired by a line of a Szymborska poem
which I love.
So the epigraph is her line.
Why does this written doe bound through these written words?
My handwriting is all over these woods.
No, my handwriting is these woods.
Each tree, a half print, half cursive scrawl.
Each loop, a limb.
My house is somewhere here, and I've
scribbled myself inside it.
What is home but a book we write then
read again and again each time dog earing different pages.
In the morning, I wake in time to pencil the sun high.
How fragile it is, the world.
I almost wrote the word but caught myself.
Either one could be erased.
In these written woods, branches smudge around me
whenever I take a deep breath.
Still, written fawns lie in the written sunlight
that dazzles their backs.
What is home but a passage.
I'm writing and underlining every time I read it.