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  • Writer's picturePenny Harter


After meeting a baby rabbit on the path, this new poem found me last night. When we’re open, to “seeing”, almost any moment can blossom.

The Baby Rabbit

Today as I’m walking in from the parking

lot to my front door, a baby rabbit jumps

out of the grass as if to cross the sidewalk

before me, then pauses on the edge and

stays there for a while, not freezing in

place as an older rabbit might do, just

gazing my way as I slowly inch nearer.

So tiny, just the size to fit my palm, it

calls my hand to hold it, my fingers to

stroke its soft gray fur, raise it to my cheek.

When I get too close, it wakes from its

seeming dream to quickly hop across and

disappear into the density of a hedge-like

bush encroaching on the path.

What is it about the young of any species

that catches at our hearts? Perhaps it is the

promise of possibility—memories of the

children we once were, or of babies cradled

in our arms—of those halcyon days before

we grew to understand what seasons are,

and what they might yet be.

© 2020 Penny Harter

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