I have gone out into the snow,
braving the winter’s fiery cold,
and searched for rabbit high and low
when frosty mitts refused to hold.
Crouched here by the flickering fire,
with sustenance somehow in hand
and hope renewed as flesh desire,
I begin again to clutch at strands
of life’s little leaded moments,
in the weight of our laughs and cries
and in the wait for small rodents
to give a vestige to my life.
If I were to go back behind,
not to the quaint little cabin,
but backwards, opposite of time
would I then still begin again
the great forgetting I have found
as fire, rabbit, and freedom:
the simple things like self newfound,
or would it all go to tedium,
screaming cars, and booming days
filled up to the ears with the wait?