I saw a deer skeleton
gracing the roadside
and didn’t stop to wonder
where the flesh had gone,
why just a tuft of fur clung,
a bit of tail.
Didn’t pause to ponder
its change from leaping-warmth
to cold, clean bones.
Didn’t stop but glimpsed
crisp, dark lines against snow,
rib cage, long legs, perfect spine—
what we with mounded dirt,
neat lawn, and flowered stones
seek so hard to hide—
I drove quickly by.
~Laura Foley, “Intuition” from  It’s This

I drive a night-darkened country road, white lines sweeping past,
aware of advancing frost in the evening haze,
anxious to return home to fireplace light.

Nearing a familiar corner, a stop sign looms,
to the right, a rural cemetery sits silently expectant.

Open iron gates and tenebrous headstones,
in the middle path, incongruous, a car’s headlights beam bright.
I slow, thinking: lovers or vandals might seek inky cover of night.

Instead, these lights illuminate a lone figure, kneeling graveside,
one hand resting heavily on a stone, head bowed in prayer.

A stark moment of solitary sorrow,
invisible grieving of the heart focused in twin beams,
impossible to hide.

A benediction of mourning; light piercing the heart’s blackness,
as gentle fingertips trace the engraved letters of a beloved name.

As an uneasy witness, I withdraw as if touched myself
and drive on into the night, struggling to see
through the thickening mist of my eyes and the road.