The Rabbit's grave is
shallow and bitter
with bones exposing innocence twine
that pull and bloat the growing mind.
The house is content,
its tea-kettle laughters,
its dreary permanence
leaves the door
half-way open.
And the stench from the garden
pervades the house,
the nostalgic manacles of time
Embedded within
that skeleton.
Flowers from the morning
explode in; welcome spring!
the yellow shades of bliss.
But you, you
already buried it.
Let it rot in the abandoned pasture
to be devoured by hungry prey
It makes no difference.
the grass refused to grow this year;
Leaving the grave
Untouched and bare.
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