Everywhere I look
for the poem that should be
waiting for me; outside in the garden
with debris from yesterday’s poem
a too-plump rabbit,
rounder than yesterday,
fatter than she’s any right to be,
eating the petals of coneflower,
leaves from my lily stalk
chewed down to nub.
She’s hatching more
rabbits—no hope
for the sunflowers as they push
spindly  through thick striped seeds.
And my poem?
Maybe beneath black dirt
glistening from last night’s rain
it’s sending up tendrils,
pale as slugs,
to green on my page
if the rabbits don’t get there first.

-Pauletta Hansel