Ghosts Who Slip Between the Light through Trees

My Autumn Leaves

by Bruce Weigl

I watch the woods for deer as if I’m armed.

I watch the woods for deer who never come.   

I know the hes and shes in autumn

rendezvous in orchards stained with fallen   

apples’ scent. I drive my car this way to work   

so I may let the crows in corn believe

it’s me their caws are meant to warn,

and snakes who turn in warm and secret caves

they know me too. They know the boy

who lives inside me still won’t go away.

The deer are ghosts who slip between the light   

through trees, so you may only hear the snap   

of branches in the thicket beyond hope.   

I watch the woods for deer, as if I’m armed.