From the Bunny’s Baby Book
The coolness of the spring night made sleep an extra-lunar journey into Neverland.
In the silence of our loft we slumbered,
a roll of paper towels upon the floor beside our bed.
(After a busy day it is okay to leave a role of paper towel by your bed.)
There was tearing of newspaper and banging against
the canvas of your old playpen floor. We ignored it
and the depths of night came and soon silence reined.
4:45 and the alarm went off. Our eyes opened to the darkness of
With the flick of a light switch, there appeared, all about our abode, paper towels torn and white and everywhere.
You innocently twitched your nose,
seemingly unaware of the chaos,
content with your creation.
Impishly, you had fashioned a hole in the floor of your make-shift cage
in the wee hours,
And it is true that playpens are not for all babies.
So what form of half-hazard thing awaited you as we meandered toward
Friday? But thin metal bars placed upon the playpen floor, which
you seemed quite content to contort your body through in order to nibble
the wires of my headphones at about 3am.
After my patching and sewing you lazed about within your indoor cote
munching on bunny food and straw.
I held your infant gray self in my arms, you were cradled and close.
The sunâ€™s farewell was a giftâ€¦ almost.
A lone dog barked in the stillness. A fluffy ball snuggled close to my head
upon my pillow,
then ON my head. Fur smothered my breath.
Finally, Apollo began his gallivant across the blue and we were at the
store buying you the perfect home.
Metal. Box. Plenty of room to hop. A latch on the door.
You seemed meek.
Selene guided four-year-old fingers
upon the latch.
Whispers stirred groggy heads to find
a little one being tended to with celery sticks, lettuce and a
bowl of water in a pink canopied doll carriage
bathed by moonlight.
At the roosterâ€™s cry and when buttercups lift their heads, unfledged hearts
mourned a new lock and adults
celebrated with wine
because play for the nocturnal would be
only in the daytime.