was crimson velvet,
With veins of gold — not brass —
Too fine to leave a baby rabbit
Trembling on the grass —
But selfishness and arid science
Kept her company,
And worked to crush her soft defiance:
"Let the rabbit be."
Be what? Be caught, by cat or hawk?
Be frozen in the rain?
Or live a week, in daily shock
Of hunger, thirst, and pain?
Returned from loving — and from hating
Love, in distant lands,
She found the rabbit's bones there — waiting —
Waiting — for her hands.
© 2008 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author.