Jane Olmsted


In the story I used to read to you
about the runaway bunny,
Mother Rabbit is always the very thing it takes
to bring her bunny home.

A page hangs in a poster frame on your wall—
"If you become a bird and fly away from me,
I'll be the tree you come home to."

Now that you have said, "I will die and
leave this earth and you behind,"
Mother Rabbit just wags her carrot
and I don't know what shape
I can pour myself into
that can possibly bring you home—

Shall I become a wisp of light and scent
so you will recognize the angel who embraces you?

If I become the place where your shadow feet
can still leave an impression,
would you know me as the path you take
to find yourself at god's feet?

Beside the shivers of worm trails
and carcasses of insects,
I reach inside and grasp the place that weeps,
so you will know
in the way that spirits know
the weight is yours, is mine.