The grasses weren’t green.
They were grey in the cold, quiet
nearest to death of winter.
Only scattered black remnants of flowers
nodded to my upended hopes.
But the tiny crescent moon hung low
against the palest indigo sky that day;
and I stood alone, unmoving as the fox.
Both our eyes wide, both our knees trembling.
I suppose both our hearts
were beating the same.
It surprised me how long he lingered
more than how swiftly he slipped away;
he seemed to treasure the minute we spent
together—he was still, unflinching.
Hot tears rushed to my eyes
as soon as I knew he was gone,
and I still don’t know if they were tears of grief
of a beauty lost to the strong hands of time,
or if they were hot tears of gratitude
for the simple graces of grey grasses,
a crescent moon,
and one minute
in a field with a fox.
Dear fox,
when you disappeared into the woods,
did your eyes well too?
