Two rabbits rest beneath the tree,
soft ears alert but still,
their noses twitch.
The swing above them
rocks— a measured metronome,
its boards aware of
what it means to hold.
The sky is brushed with cloud
and streaks of rose,
the noonday moon sits
pale and full of thought—
a coin of milk, a petal
not yet dropped,
a whisper of the cold
that sleeps ahead.
They do not move.
They study light and blue,
as if the world
paused to wonder, too.
The air is soft.
The moment barely breathes.
They blink, then lean
more deeply into stillness.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 8th, 2026 05:09
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
Cryptic you have captured the essence of time in this poem with the metronome of the swing, we the rabbits frozen under it observe its wonders and beauty. Aware of its temporality we pause awaiting the "cold that sleeps ahead" powerless we pause and wonder and lean into that stillness. What a lovely and somehow peaceful but powerless snapshot of life itself. Simply beautiful and a fave my friend
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