And, come next Spring, I know some amateur poetry mags I can send it to, in plenty of time for their upcoming summer issue(s).
The Long Eared Solstice
On his hind legs he trims my lawn,
And as I watch him chew, I am bucolically amused,
for this rabbit seems a bit confused
as to who’s the rabbit and who’s the man,
Drowsy in the summer light, I think it better this
than that I should wage this war, I Man,
on the lawn with these arms;
my electric weeding whip, and my tractor drove gas mower
Now, here at the dusk of Spring,
he’s brought an appetite for the ready seeds borne by the green grass,
sun toasted and gold atop the fine green stalks, tall as asparagus,
No happenstance our grass’ so lengthy,
on this our longest day
Perhaps, should the rabbit like,
I could craft him a little scythe,
That while he hays, he may make play
at being our long eared solstice Father Time,
here for his yearly reap and sow,
Soon to leave his harvest standing tied in sheaves,
left to dry here to a gold malt brown, before comes Autumn leaves,
which he’ll then carry to his burrow for his Winter lay away
And I laugh, no rabbit’s ever worked that hard,
no, he’ll eat here ‘til he’s full enough,
or he can no longer stand the stuff,
Then he’ll lope off to another’s yard
where the clover blooms today,
Yes, that’s more the rabbit’s way
Tonight, when this our half past years highest sun
has taken to bed under the waxing black cloak of night, our backyard rabbit will no more be seen,
excepting his by his lamplight eyes
should I catch him in my flashlights’ gleam,
So we’ll leave him, as it looks to be a cloudless night,
and soon we’ll spy a rabbit I know revels in his toil,
For tonight the full moon burns, and there, when high,
in that searchlight, in that gilt silver mirror ball,
we’ll catch instead the old illusive rabbit of the moon!
As he’s compounds pure mirth’s elixir,
the spice of life and love on Earth,
from the curdles of the milky whey
in his old wood butter churn
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