Old Hare

Eyes explore for wildflowers in tall weeds it's where the unexpected shows its face it's here March hare springs into life and speeds, oh, those flowers were once you full of grace. But even love, once it's-not-hypnotized. It's like looking for rare blooms in the weeds. Their faces curled in leaves frost-ionized. Oh, those flowers can run like millipedes. Turn to seed one with another with new roots. While Old hares you live that lonely existence running in circles, twisting like Rubik's cubes, this way-that in flight just in coexistence. If intemperance you pick a flower in remembrance wild, and deflower her.