Maybe, Maybe Not
The wooden rabbit sits upon
A scruffy pine tree limb;
Always facing north he is,
Tiny, fit and trim.
He’s a never-stirring icon
Of nature’s quiet grace;
Silent and immobile,
He can never show his face.
Imagination found him,
Sitting in the cold,
Waiting to be spotted
By imagination bold.
He’s the loadstar from my sickbed;
He’s the ever-present ghost;
Always in the moment,
Always the perfect host.
“Seeing is believing,”
Says St. Thomas filled with dread;
God is right in front of you,
Too late once you are dead.
Still the rabbit sits there
In his forlorn tree,
Waiting for the Presence,
To bring life to him and me!
