What could it say that wouldn’t spasm us back to ourselves to be bait or a dead prayer?
–C. K. Williams
The rabbits are scattered,
left with nothing left
but their astonishment.
Winter has placed its silvery hands
on something growing in the ground,
a root and leaf, fresh in a nest, and it looks,
well, rather gracious in there, inviting,
a hutch for winter’s groundlings.
And yet, a rabbit trap is just
another old tin bucket with
a spring to seal it tight. It does not
take life, it snares it, leaves it whole
and whimpering. The cold will do the rest.
You smile, I know. As if to say,
Go ahead, lift it. Take a peek.
For there can be nothing underneath.
By God’s grace, starvation.
All is—and all must be—persuasion.