The White Hare
You saw it first in a dream:
the white hare bounding over
tufted knolls, the sun arcing
toward sable twilight,
and knew then the net it wove,
this vision, this animal
self loosed in the world, lifting
you out of your hours
but onto what, exactly?
Migration’s instinctual:
the destination’s unknown,
so start where you stand.
As the lonesome pilgrim said,
The wind that shakes the barley
is the wind that blows through me.
Put another way,
we belong to firmament.
We ache to feel, and feeling,
ache. Trapped, the mind obeys its
design: it scatters.
To look for the locket is
of no use. It will be found
between rocks in your backyard
years after you’re gone.