We hung it in an ivy
Crawling up between
The weathered slats,
So injured and so torn
From keeping secrets
Through the years,
A lucky little rabbit’s foot
To catch the sooty rains
As they carved veins across
Our shaky fence’s weft.

All soaking now, and skeletal,
Its fragile bones like feather quills
In off-white habit clinging,
Clinging to the woodgrain
For a fortune there
Among the leaves in constellation.
How mistaken are the auspices
Of children like ourselves–
How simple and deceived.

#Portland #Oregon

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