In the saturated green of evening
When the sun is behind the hill,
The doe swims among the blossoms,
Her warm brown coat awash
In soft blue and white, like foamy hands,
And as she floats forward
To take a colored bite,
Guard hairs brush petals,
Silk on silk,
Touch, and slide, and separate,
Gently pressed together by their respective bodies,
A moment interleaved like tesselated fingers,
Then springing to their usual arc,
Each with a lingering memory of the other.
Now the doe’s back is flecked with tiny flowers,
Blue, and white, and almost purple,
And on the tresses of bloom, a few brown hairs.
How rich the gentle colors in the evening.