It isn’t about that, said the hare,
its poppy petal remains scattered across snow.
I hesitated, clutching at equations, wanting to explain away mess, and loss,
or deviations like pain, at the mean, and parameters of grief,
but the hare laughed at such ministrations
and with an evanescent twitch, pointed to my heart.
It’s about that, said the hare, as he stamped the stained ground,
and how to love even this
while the hawk circles overhead with its untroubled hunger
ever ready to offer you the sky.