Two-Eyed Glen

by Will Fleming

Your eye must have been

the lens for purest sunlight:

otherwise you would be

lost, swallowed in forests

    profound as yours;

 

drowned beneath those

twin white lakes: distillate

    of higher worlds;

 

the anomaly

amid a wealth

    of spruce;

sour seed embedded

    in the sweetness

        of the earth—

 

but somehow, you are not.

 

In some way

your hermit’s perch

seems glacier-scraped

for you alone—

    that rugged throne whereon you 

    survey and seek out the Glen’s every subtle nuance.

 

When solitude likewise

sought you out;

    stole you clean,

Time pulled hard her reins on you:

    halted silent in your tracks—

 

there,

    in her place,

the doe takes up your footfalls,

    each oscillating under-hoof

    to re-emerge

        crescendos below the lakes.