began with Uncle Luther as we waited
on his porch, kernels of corn in my palm
for the chipmunk to stuff in his cheeks

or by the creek for the first bullfrog
to rise eyes-first in the water,

or where he showed me trailing arbutus hidden
in the grass beneath the pines, so I would play carefully
around their pink and white flowers and keep his treasure safe.

So that taking the long way home from Woodbourne
over outcrops of Appalachian rock
past birch trees, ironwood, and into the beech forest
I saw the doe first and waited
until she came within arm's reach, head down
along the narrow trail.  She snorted,
circled, caught the scent of human hair and skin,
jumped once, but still I did not move
and she walked on

so that even as I see him growing frail
will death be anything more
than a long observation of grass and rain
and wind in a quiet place.