Once there was a rabbit.
It got its head blown off in an unfortunate hunting accident.
Most bunnies would give up but not this rabbit.
No, it magically healed and continued to leap about, headless and fluffy as ever.
Headless bunnies can make do in rabbit society
if they are willing to recognize their headlessness.
Yes, they can get along just fine.
And that's the end of this story.
His name was Michael, but the Oxford locals called him Hattie Kismet.
He spoke knowledgably; secure that his previous occupations (both as a Bang & Olufsen theater designer and that fun congressional speechwriting volunteer work) would make for interesting stories around the counter at the diner and,
One day, a larger better Him.
He was lean,
A streamlined efficiency home furnishings expert by trade,
An outdoorsman by bliss
Who found his greatest relaxation and joy
either looking out over a pole off the side of a boat
or on top of five please-God, let-them-be-solid inches of ice.
His soul was as clear and wide as a Montana trout stream,
Swiftly fluidly winding from Upper to Lower
Easy working for the sure-footed
A delighted glimpse of rainbows darting just below his surface
Like varities of winged creatures,
His love knew the migratory pathways, flying intercessory miles
between the cold Midwest and the California coast,
touching hearts with the woman he adored,
That beautiful school teacher, his beloved
The dear one who understood the articulate nature of his song,
recognized it immediately, even if he wasn't a Top-40 tune.
He reckoned that not every song was meant to suit each person
He smiled with the mischievousness of a catchy tune
And was excited about the possibilities -
Like turning his 'fuck-they-can-reach-me-everywhere-EVERYwhere!' phone
OFF
for an hour
twice weekly
And, despite possible concern that he wouldn't have time to complete writing worth presenting, he anticipated improving his writerly confidence.
He was a strong young white spruce
riding blind on the back of a flatbed
still growing, still protected by the burlap,
unconcerned about where he may be headed or planted
Confident that the life he was being led toward would be
A playground
without age or height restrictions.
melted blueberry crisp bubbling
at the edge of the treeline
waking on the flat
sandstone shoreline
beneath tall carmelized-trunked Arbutus,
wherein the tufts of the highest
freshest, greenest-smelling leaves
sit two raucous eagles hawr-hawring
at the hilarity of their mutual baldness.
examining me over the bleary red edge of my sleeping sack stares a saucer-eyed seal,
bobble-headed curiosity,
standing in dark amusing contrast to the raspberry sorbet layer of
fluffy energy-gathering clouds now hovering above the trees
I recall lying awake in the darkness last night,
me and the dying batteries of my flashlight
Hoping to outlast that hopeless feeling that accompanied my temporary blindness.
now, with the savory course of
eggy over-easiness
served full-up and bright with a short order cook's slapping bell DING
I'd welcome quiet
stillness
sleep.
