(4 November 1740–11 August 1778 / Surrey, England)

The Rabbit

Rest, to the most callous of winters,
I still find room
To toss a carrot
Into the newest of age.
They feed on what is given
Unexpecting of what is to come.
It gives me joy,
As they are still childlike
Romping freely
In the grass.
They have been fed,
And, isn't that what is important
To us all?
If we succumb,
It is only after we
Have been stuffed full
Of this time
Here on earth
And digested all
That remains here for us.
Only then,
Do we escape with
The innocence
That we dream,
And anticipate
What lies beyond us.

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Comments (1)

Chris, such a superb poem👍👍👍