I’m scared of cedars bending…

I’m scared of cedars bending

In an arch over my head,

Calling to mind the glistening gates

Where dash the mad dead.

For I am a deer of this era,

Who rears his head above the reeds,

And had I a throat of stars

Then surely fate would let me be.

Instead I trot through woods

Searching for new grass,

Only to find cedars sweetly bent

As the hands of fate graze my back.