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