Velvet

Blood-filled tissue is shredded from bone
Tis a yearly occurrence
A sign of the coming spring
Bucks must peel the velvet from their antlers
 
Raw bone
Exposed, and yet natural
But what of the young buck?
Does he look forward with trust? Does he know true north?
How it must feel
To tear flesh from pride
And know, in the coming year, it must all happen anon
 
But what
Did you expect, love?
(Yet, still the knocking of mothers, upon closed doors)
You know not which side the moss grows on,
Nor how to till the soil
 
Oh, and how they will ask,
And how they will wonder
If the lilacs are in bloom
“Well,” I will say, “were they not forever flowering?
Or do they now appear wilted?”
And yes, perhaps they do