a rabbit flattened at the bottom of the drive
paused in perfect flight, long ears listening
still to the very thing
that killed it, once so much alive
itís the size of my little cat, the back feet so like those
I hold and gently rub, and whisper Little Miss...
the secret fluff and down of her, petite belle petite
paws tucked under tiny chin, golden eyes closed
why give thus to fragile flesh, wise as we are
to the vanishing, to sudden nothingness beyond our leave
leaving us so to grieve
sadder but not wiser than before
then what else shall we be if not just this
tied each to each in wordless tenderness
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Grace Andreacchi would
be pleased to hear them.