if you could brush the snow just slightly,

the rabbit, this fluff of speed and light, could hasten

from the hole burrowed under my front porch—

and if you hold your rifle just so, the barrel watching

the clouds serrate the cobalt sky, I could offer

you a receipt for your loveliness, your generosity;

I’d handwrite praises—life is life is life—and draw

animals in crayon with forlorn eyes and thankful hands

because, of course, we are all the animals [and I

apologize for breaking this analogy like a splintered

toothpick], and the rabbit already rifles with fear,

it’s back jittery, chest quaking with a heart just one

crack away from exploding [and I’d apologize for

reverting to animal, but the snow is just so light]

 

 

Brian Baumgart (he/him) is the author of the poetry collection Rules for Loving Right (Sweet, 2017), and his writing has appeared in a number of journals, including South Dakota Review, Spillway, Whale Road Review, and Signal Mountain Review, among others. Brian teaches writing and literature at North Hennepin Community College.