Wabbitz

by Nikki McBride Spencer

I am not, in any way, shape, or form, a poet. Nor could I be confused for one. However, I have a dear friend who has that elusive knack for poetry which I lack. Her poems lift me and I appreciate them very much.
Please enjoy the following delightful poem; I did, and it made my day.





Wabbitz

There’s a bunny in the bougainvillea,
I saw him go;
Just a lil guy, a handful of rabbit, or two
I watch him strain his young neck for the dried weeds
a mere inch from his reach
And his ears strain to and fro
As he at once tries to chew as bunnies chew
and not become dinner.
I'm thinking of stew, lil wabbit
Which is funny, you know, because
We don't eat rabbit here
One look at your bright eyes and I can feel
your hind legs upon my wrists like mad
And twisting
As I picked you up by the ears -
No, it wouldn't do
How could I treat you like your mortal enemy
the hawk would, straining at life as you do?
Could I wring that little neck of yours without some stripes of me own
blood too?
Pretty brown thing with a cottonball at your bum, you look more like a wren
or a sparrow,
tense and twitching, flight at every sound, blending in with the earth
and the sparseness of brush that
you chew on, munching with that ever-twitching muzzle - I see why we
are charmed.
You're so rabbit. From every tale.
Could I ever hurt you, you who act so much like prey?
And now seeing it’s you instead of the gophers casting up mounds under
our hedgerows,
I am still and watch you instead of being annoyed, and think
How precious, bunnies here?
And it occurs to me ironically the "damage" is still done, and,
I don't have the heart to eat you.
Yet.
It appears I'm out of the loop
of the life cycle.

C. Harrison
May 27 2012