Carol Tyx


On this misty morning
the labyrinth is a labyrinth
no clear pathway anywhere,
sand scuffled over the brick edging,
some bricks buried, oak leaves,
footprints, deerprints jumbling
the boundaries, fog
jumbling the forest
beyond, the birds blurry
as they skitter on the edges.
You try starting over, twice,
only to lose your way
again. You close your eyes
breathe in the cold silver-
slivered air, then slip
into the forest, nearly
invisible yourself, laughing
to think you thought
you knew the way.


The yearling in the creek hops and hulas,
wiggles a rear end, runs in a tight circle
as if chasing her tail, scampers side to side—all
in a most un-deer-like fashion—leaps
up the snow-covered bank and back skittering
on rocks, like children everywhere, playing
with whatever they can find.

How to Listen Like a Deer

How to listen like a deer
ears pitched forward
body utterly rapt
waiting, not for a message
but for a wider knowing:
what it means to be still,
what it means to leap
out of that stillness.