by Francess Archer Dunbar
the hare is fast
the hare multiplies, grows, jumps
over flower and foe, and is prized
for neither fur nor flesh nor
friendship to man, too small to be
feared and too large to be
hated, burrowing beneath
and in cartoon memory
transforming rocks to roads
evading the hunter’s gun
quick-witted and wondering
when the clover will grow?
ask the rabbits in the field,
one yesterday had its hundredth daughter
and she was born
murmuring that winter
would bloom white tomorrow,
a message from the before and after
place the hare knows so well
Alice’s worst timekeeper,
follow the rabbits
and they’ll take the long way
underground and put on
the old role of Chiron,
with a carrot instead of a coin
and big ears for sad stories
and no chance of bringing
anyone back up with you.
nobody reincarnates like
a hare, the generation that
led you down the tunnel system
gone and returned by the time
your sister shakes you awake,
and gazing down from the moon
monthly the same trickster, round
like birth and guarding the entrance
of another lucky month.