cjahngo

A blue March Hare in a field of blazing orange his eye reflecting a firey contemplation of the grass. The impulse of the Sun, a star, our Hare beaming a thoughtful prayer raining down like water in the form of heat and light transfigured in the soil an alchemy of botanical desire, lush thirsty and craving to be kissed by the self-same Sun. Where did the Hare begin? At what point along the continuum did the ears sprout, the nose twitch. And, of course, the question: What is the grass? A lineage of quantum mechanics whosoever must first be re-born, as if plucked out of a tophat, the body of a serpent, its mouth agape -- the ears, where are the ears? Yes, hare. A blue March Hare, the craziest of lucky stars, emerges from a metaphor of grass. And in the garden, bedeviled by its own nature, divided by the singular belief that there really is more, our Hare chews through a coarse stalk, a fiberous outcropping of thought, grazing upon the blank, contented stare of his bovine neighbor. Yes, I am different than you, mon ami. We are here together and yet I am alone, outside you. I am truly waiting, standing somewhere, waiting for You.