The deer passed
through the thin air of distance
at the speed of his heartbeat,
serenading love
with the fountain of passion
beneath the all-season windows of devotion.
But the rest
shrunk their necks,
turtles in stiff collars,
retreating into the shells
of their conformities,
denying the hero
to justify their cowardice,
flinting his name
by burning his flesh,
not knowing
it is not in life
but in their death
that heroes survive.
The irony of flesh and survival:
for only
in the numbness of cold
does the fire within
ignite
and thrive.
