My Life as a Deer

I have eight point antlers and am almost certain that, were we to buck,
then your little sprigs might shatter all across the wilderness,
but what goodness would I feel,
having left you bald beneath the maples.

But what if my untried antlers turn upon themselves
like an old man's back or a politician's words (and I am a bit of both)?
What if I wake up to read the news and find myself already lost?

I will wait here by the pond, you know the place, and you also.
I will confess, it is easy for me, the one who waits and knows, that
whichever way the world is settled,
my crown will be waiting at your feet.