The Door of the Season
That time of year when deer confer
In rings around the coldest springs,
Their antlers woven into chandeliers
Lit with eyes. The door of the season
Is about to open, a door that is flush
With the earth, its jambs brimming
With light that pours up from the secret
Room in which dead fathers embrace
Their solemn sons, who pull away
To climb the rungs, pushing the door
Up with the butts of their guns.
The hinges creak and the door falls
With a heavy thud to the forest floor.
The deer hear it and begin to sway,
Unlocking their antlers, then back away
Gallantly into deaths all their own.