In the irrevocable
melting you dragged
yourself like a deserter
along the bloodtrail,
so this is the last day
of winter, you asked
arriving in a clearing
where snowflowers bloomed
from mud patches, but still
the wind bore the smell of carrion,
so this would be my past,
the chattering branches,
the red dots on white background,
and you spotted
from behind a bush the deer
emerging to appease its thirst,
and saw as it bent forward
the wound bleeding from its side,
you lowered your rifle
and stepped closer, much closer,
so this is the spring of my future,
then it looked upon you
and said, yes.