I Know, I Remember, But How Can I Help You

The northern lights. I wouldn’t have noticed them
  if the deer hadn’t told me
  a doe her coat of pearls her glowing hoofs
  proud and inquisitive
  eager for my appraisal
and I went out into the night with electrical steps
  but with my head held also proud
  to share the animal’s fear
  and see what I had seen before
  a sky flaring and spectral
  greenish waves and ribbons
and the snow under strange light tossing in the pasture
  like a storming ocean caught
  by a flaring beacon.
  The deer stands away from me not far
  there among bare black apple trees
  a presence I no longer see.
  We are proud to be afraid
  proud to share
the silent magnetic storm that destroys the stars
  and flickers around our heads
  like the saints’ cold spiritual agonies
  of old.
I remember but without the sense other light-storms
  cold memories discursive and philosophical
  in my mind’s burden
  and the deer remembers nothing.
We move our feet crunching bitter snow while the storm
  crashes like god-wars down the east
  we shake the sparks from our eyes
  we quiver inside our shocked fur
  we search for each other
  in the apple thicket—
  a glimpse, an acknowledgment
  it is enough and never enough—
we toss our heads and say good night
  moving away on bitter bitter snow.