The Hunter

The Hunter

Amazing, the man who sleeps not at home,
lends shelter for small ones and certain sunsets,

keeps the hot sun off gentle soft heads,
and stores the sad books that they all once read.

That he was a hunter we seem to forget--
wandered the forests that no one has known,

left behind tracks and broken down saplings,
and half-charred firewood doused by the spring.

Amazing, the man, who sleeps not at home,
lends armor, for loved ones and frozen sunsets,

But no one remembers the chill in the night,
born by the man with the deer in his sight.

Glum with no choice but to shoot the old deer,
not to count points on the pointed antler.

Amazing, the man, who sleeps, not at home,
brings food for small ones and gentle sunsets,

arriving, still dawn, with the dad of the fawn,
the meat that we'll all keep a close eye upon,

The man who returns from the forests he’s roamed.
The dad, who was known, to sleep, not at home.

The hunter--

he was known,
to sleep not,

at home.