Had we crucified the rabbit--
yanked him from his fields of grass
and staked him out by paws and tender feet
to quiver, twitch and die in agony
of innocence,
and then, in three days' time,
had seen him hop from the tomb
unscathed
but for the wounded paws and feet we felt--
then maybe now we'd talk of Christ,
pass his story down from child to child
and only faintly hint at silly myths of
wicker baskets,
chocolate eggs,
treasures hidden in the field
and some trick hare who died
then somehow disappeared.
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