The quarter-sized leaves
of these wild purple violets pulse green
beneath morning’s tangle of death.
Battered brown oak leaves veil
mangled fur and flesh.
A hint of cottontail peeks
above back legs, oddly stretched out
like when they propelled its living hop,
shining up against the green,
before last night’s violence
made this baby bunny scream.
Brenda Warren 2016
Notes: The annihilated bunny was near the bird feeder this morning. It’s April, so it became a poem. Poor little critter. If it screamed, I didn’t hear it, but this was certainly a proper occasion.
Aww……poor baby. Nicely captured scene. But…poor baby…. ❤
Why is it, do you think, that sometimes these little deaths mean more in some way? We gasp at numbers killed in a flash flood, a tornado, or hurricane, but the baby bunnies make us cry and move us to poems. I can easily see why you chose to write this. Moved in the moment, your use of words moves your reader. Thanks for hanging in…,
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