‘Here at last is the thing I was made for.’ “
- C. S. Lewis
From vintage cloth, a rabbit rises —
cut out & stuffed with straw. Plaything for a child
that has the soul of a room and person
sewn in. Their story breathable in the plain weave,
permeable through dreams as the boy sleeps.
A calico hare leads him into a strange kitchen.
where a woman lays her head against the table
crying. The oak around her polished yet somber
as coffin wood. A single lamp burns & spare change
( left from the rent) gleams in the light. A window
casts its shadow on the worn timber with thin
branches in the framework. A Calendar page
that marks the passing of leaves and birds. Laundry
on a backyard clothesline and her last days
in a cottage where she has taken shelter
from the road and field. Slowly, she unties her apron
and throws it on the floor. A cotton bed of flowers
left for someone else– to gather up and use.