Of all the fledgling vegetables 
in the garden, the rabbits prefer 
               the furled promise of fiddleheads, 
                            their hidden cognition. 

The mystery of the three hares: 
             they share only three ears, 
             yet each of them has two. 

Circling endlessly,  
               a galaxy, a wormhole,  
                             a snail occulted in its shell. 

The drifting quality of perception. 

The alchemist rabbit in the moon 
magicking by mortar and pestle 
           that most elusive elixir.   

Fibonacci discovered  
his eponymous sequence 
by observing rabbit reproduction: 
                           nature’s spiral signature, 
                           the fractal by which everything grows. 

It’s a trick, isn’t it?   
Bursting from a black top hat, 
wearing a waistcoat? 

And we’re always running late. 

Yet spring returns, maddening.
The rabbits glean again  
the garden’s bounty, 

                                          spirit it away.

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