it can’t float away.
And the rain, everybody’s brother,
won’t help. And the wind all these days
flying like ten crazy sisters everywhere
can’t seem to do a thing. No one but me,
and my hands like fire,
to lift him to a last burrow. I wait
days, while the body opens and begins
to boil. I remember
the leaping in the moonlight, and can’t touch it,
wanting it miraculously to heal
and spring up
joyful. But finally
I do. And the day after I’ve shoveled
the earth over, in a field nearby
I find a small bird’s nest lined pale
and silvery and the chicks—
are you listening, death?—warm in the rabbit’s fur.

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S'identifier Commentaires...
Paulette Lincoln-Baker
plus de 3 ans

I can't believe this is one Mary Oliver poem I somehow missed (given that for years I have had rabbits as companion animals and that I have been reading her poetry for a while now.) What a powerfully sad yet uplifting work. I wept the first time I read it and I read it aloud several times and have told others about it.

Robert L. Martin
plus de 5 ans

Very deep and moving

Mr Moonlight
plus de 5 ans

Just lovely. I aspire to write like this one day. :-)

Parker Jennings
plus de 5 ans

Excellent poem about death and the virtue that life goes on. Significance, how the rabbit's fur finds use post-mortem to help nurture the new life springing forth. A slap in the face of death. Marvelous

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