Rabbit

She was busy counting wolves

conversing with crows

soft and white as a widow's linen.

They scoffed at her,

called her delicate,

only good for stew.

So she dug herself into stories,

buried beneath the noise

let them hunt after the myth of her,

never finding it.

The forest swallowed her,

dried leaves and damp earth

scented with cinnamon

embracing her bones

in the hush of the underbrush.

She multiplied in silence

beneath the roots,

growing wild

through branches of wildflowers.

The thicket whispers a warning.

The hunters have gone missing,

and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"

awakens whole, green with breath,

wild,

and never soft again.

Participant's Poems