The Hermit Hare

THE clover songs you sow across the Spring
Will find my heart, the hidden hermit hare,
I know — and she will quake, encountering
Their sweetness in the tunnels of her lair.
Alone with silence, she can scarce ignore
For long, the throb of roots above her arc,
But lured, reluctant, to her skyward door,
Inquisitive, will sniff, and peer, and hark.

But should you spy two listening blades of fur
Above the hillock, do not claim her yet,
Nor deem you have so soon emboldened her:
She has an Autumn terror to forget;
And singing is a young and slender sound
To blur the hungry hoarseness of the hound.