“This world is but canvas to our imaginations.” Henry David Thoreau
I am going to offer Thoreau
the benefit of the doubt—
perhaps you were quoted
Out of Context
Because, No.
The world is itself, independent of us
No matter how awful or beautiful it is
or we are.
There is a lame deer in the field this morning.
I watch her from the bedroom window
as I dress for work
She hobbles, fails utterly
to keep pace with the others—
in pain
and painful to watch
This is not a poem about resilience
No rest or help or recovery
will be offered to her
And even those creatures
fortunate enough in this world
to afford a soft bed, and homemade meals,
jovial helpers with kind hearts, physical therapy,
all manner of supports we prop ourselves with
A softer path than hers, but still
A path.
She has moved while I wrote—
grazes the left-behind field grass,
edges closer to the cover of forest
that dangerous border
Puff Of Smoke Poems 