These are the days of miracle and wonder . . . ~ Paul Simon
It fell for days and days, the snow. In the colder cold, it was down feathers, or the powder in my mother’s plastic Coty bowl, from where she doused her puff and smoothed it onto the velvet petals of her cheeks, chin, nose and forehead. I feel the silk of her good-night kiss. And smell her: freesia.
This is the habitat of the deer.
We weigh the same, the young doe and I, when she is not with child. I will never be with child again, but in this moment, we walk the same path. Next year, a fawn will come to her, from her, out of her, under her, and quickly learn to walk around her! This is how we rise and fall.
But today, I am the one who walks on water. See, her hoof inserts itself into the glove of snow. But not mine.
With March come warmer days, still cold nights, and freezing rain. The footprints the deer and I had left become crusted in frozen traps of treachery, enough to twist an ankle. Today, the surface next to our tracks is solid, and my human feet in boots skip across it like white lightning on the horizon in summer. But not the doe’s. See how her hoof inserts itself into the glove of winter, and kisses the ground.
Which of us is not a miracle?
These are the days of miracle and wonderThis is the long distance callThe way the camera follows us in slo-moThe way we look to us allThe way we look to a distant constellationThat's dying in a corner of the skyThese are the days of miracle and wonderAnd don't cry baby, don't cryDon't cry~ from "The Boy in the Bubble" by Paul Simon