Yet may I by no means my weried mynd
                               Drawe from the Diere
                                                                  —Thomas Wyatt
I watched a stag from my stand
in a maple follow the scent
of a hind in heat on her run below.
Why shoot? I wondered, despite
my need to prepare for winter
this far from town. He was a god
who spoke to me: Climb down
and find your love, he sang.
Bequeath your skin like a quilt
to the one who waits for you
I’ll come again when you awake
in mid-December. Shoot me then
with one true arrow when you
have loved, and I will feed two others.