The snowshoe hare paused just feet

from where you 

stood, well within the borders

of a tree-lined path


and you regarded one another

while the rain-wet hemlocks 

ruffled their wings

and the ground beneath you, sunlit,



as if the time for change

had come


but the hare merely worked its busy nose

and the petals of its ears

above the soft, submerged stone

of its body.


It was you that stirred first

snapping the stick beneath your shoe

and staring, breathless, as the hare



from solid to what leapt

like light 

or joy

and dappled across the forest floor


with an invitation

to set loose 

your own life  



by releasing


what once

held it back.

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