Freedom

My freedom is a plum-colored rabbit sitting by the door.
It makes me itchy to see him sitting there like that.
The bizarre and unusual nature of his little self is a new fixture in my life now,
Like a new piece of furniture that I like, but which doesn't exactly match the carpet.
In the blue of the night and the pink of the day, he sits there.
He has brought with him a present for me: a newly-rediscovered ability to relax and to think and to create.
(Creativity came back to roost last Friday on big, loud, flapping wings while I was in the middle of spring cleaning.
I was happy for the flurry of feathers he left on my freshly-vacuumed rug.
Instead of cleaning them up, I stopped to make notes of what he told me.)
So, I occasionally glance at the rabbit by the door, the spring breeze, smelling all yellow/green and dancing, Coming in the window and brushing through his purple fur.
I approach him gently, so as not to frighten him and he looks at me with big dark eyes.
They let me know that I am more afraid of him than he of me,
And with a look of almost dare and willfulness, he shuffles a bit closer to me.
As my hand makes contact with the surreally soft fur,
I wonder why I ever let him get away in the first place.


All writing contained in this website 1998-2005 by Betty A. Parker

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