The First Fawn

Now, a Limb steps, 

with a Brush, sadly rustled.

Without Buck,

Without Suck,

but eyes, sweetest, in dark 

Circles,

says:

“Nay, I can’t speak,

but the heart pains,

and barely meek!

For lost, is our hovel,

and at this age,

I’m in trouble!

For lone, now I walk;

in dwarfing forests,

I simply balk!

Why, Father, no longer roam,

in furs thick, with antlers’ bones?

Why, Mother, not nuzzle,

when I press upon your muzzle?

What love, can I know

for Life, so betrothed

to Storms’ terrors,

slaying parents,

and Leaves silent,

with no

interference?

For trees, men sing praises,

and once, so did I,

until rotting,

my parents’ corpses,

showed me

Little,

could one 

confide:

in patterns, even precious,

of nature random,

and contentious!

As tender,

though my

Beauty,

steps softly,

out of 

duty

Barely out,

and yet about

legs fragile,

but 

Heart,

Stout!”

Youth’s gleam, this anew,

shall little deer so construe:

the first Fawn,

out into,

the Pasture wide,

and Horizon too,

where men’s

Lauds,

to

hearts 

glue,

all that sings

so deeply true:

This Song, only knows,

those who see

Love enthroned

in hooves little,

ears brittle,

and soft, the nose,

of Nature’s

Riddle:

That thrash, though the Storms,

claim swiftly, all that’s born,

yet still,

rustling quickly,

such Fawns

are not forlorn!

Since shepherds,

striking leopards,

loose the deer

from all they fear

so embraced,

this Fawn raced,

and jumped into place:

Of a man’s tender arms,

who gave home, from

all that

Harms.

_________________

R.V. Smith: “The First Fawn”, 05-10-25

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith