When I was nine, my brother gave me a figurine of a deer for Christmas.
It was made from blown glass and when I turned it round in my hand,
Green light moved within it.
It was the closest thing to perfection that I had ever seen.
I still have that deer.
It has spent its life on mantel pieces, shelves, windowsills, and tables;
Never been dropped or knocked to the floor.
I don't know how it made it, all that time.
Then, I got afraid for it.
I put it in the breakfront in my dining room.
Now, my deer can see the world through seeded glass doors;
As safe as all the china,
And the trinkets my son made for me as a child.
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Author:
PerditaRose (
Offline) - Published: November 10th, 2025 21:09
- Comment from author about the poem: I had submitted this poem awhile ago, but I had edited it without ever publishing again. So, you may have already read it before. My apologies.
- Category: family
- Views: 4
Offline)
Comments1
An image dear of a deer kept near and now out of fear put behind glass clear. A touching write.
How did you write that so quickly? Amazing... thank you.
You are most welcome my thoughts come in rhyme most of the time sorry can't help it.
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