Old Miniatures

A bundle of orange flames

stands in the upper sky.

Two deer, gold, black, shy,

play their bashful games.

Patterns of little flowers

melt and recrystallize

and in the distance rise

belled and bannered towers.

The deer had been trotting around.

Now they stand still and begin

to breathe from skin to skin;

feeling approaches sound.

Peace is here preserved

of sadly long ago;

peace, and even so

the black deer now has swerved.

And now there is gold on its horns,

gold splashes the leaves

and a trail of gold weaves

away under weeds and thorns.