i love rabbits, they love me

Winter is a beautiful season. As the cold and the pain return, I’m the one going to the sanctuary now found behind my eyelids. Within this found freedom, pain is mythical, though I feel myself on every level. My awareness, sharpened, I use it and begin to look. I comb through my early life, I see myself, continuation, subtlety revealed. Beauty is found in suffering’s aftermath, not in the simple act of suffering. Art is manifest in the recumbent love that comes after hardship rages. I read poems in the lettering, in the lines of my grim smile and the satisfaction I feel as the light turns green and I skin my hands diving for the nickel as it bounces towards the storm drain. I hear symphony in the car horns, enraged as I scramble, of the light that glimmers in the hollows where my mother’s eyes should be when I press my wage into her palm. There is symmetry in the meat that I sell to the butcher, art in the perfection of their bodily design. Beauty in the melancholic moment between life and their death, true meaning in the passion I’ve found in them. I love rabbits, they love me. Find me in the “Going” between wakefulness and slumber, repository of all-connected memory. I sit there, cross legged, with beginnings and an end, never linear, but I am complete and smiling.