REMEMBERING AN EDEN TIME
Richard Fein
The meek must make do;
however, they can inherit the earth
or a piece of it.
Even the hares, mice, and voles have their moment.
But not the obvious moment.
The teeming, bountiful summer is no age of Eden,
the specters of talons, claws, and fangs
whip their hearts into endless frenzies.
Spring and fall offer
only a blanket of wet leaves
and death by fever in chilly winds.
But in desolate winter
their hunters flee in droves
and white drifts hide them,
while the heat shedding earth
sublimates the snow gouging
cool, dry, safe passages.
Scampering there, they dine
on dead grass, dried scallions, rotten nuts.
They need no furtive glances, up, down, and sideways.
Save for the owl and weasel,
sudden death no longer lurks
above their white crystalline heaven.
In darkness, they press close to earth,
and their racing hearts can finally slow.
Cowering during the equinoxes or midsummer sun,
do they perhaps drop their snouts to the ground
and sniff longingly for a whiff of winter?
