Tara

She stood by the door

of her Virginia farm

pulling a sweater on

the branches

of the dogwood

she had tended

were bowed

blossoms loosened

tossed in sudden snow

the deer stood

in mute wonder

by her garden’s edge

she slipped the phone

in her pocket

her daughter

unharmed

among

petals gone

she snapped

a branch

a tempest stalled

she felt the boy

she felt the dead

she felt the families

she felt the wind

the deer don’t do that

she said
the deer don’t do that