The coreopsis is crushed in an oval where the deer must have slept,
       

moonbeams
that didn't bloom this year for no reason
she can fathom.
She can tell no one this: a deer sleeping
in moonbeams that didn't bloom,
that sounding unreal.
It must have been young, and curled
tightly to fit in a flower bed
that the last owner lined with green metal
pounded in the ground to separate
grass from a plot
where he planted nothing. She planted the moonbeams,
again what seems too fanciful for saying,
in the fall, deer season
just beginning, hunters getting stands ready,
tempting bucks with corn.
She speaks of it to no one, and the flowers!
rebound
in the days of sun following.

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Copyright © 2020 Angie Macri All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
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