A poem about a wild rabbit in honor of his passing. CW: Animal death.

Hullo, Lady Spring. Please forgive a shy sproutling for daring to hug your skirts, mistress, but I’m just so happy to see you here.

Although it seems I never have the time to work on it (and other writers with full time jobs and hobbies may relate), I am working on a novel, and that novel is a version of Beauty and the Beast, my favorite fairy tale. Because of this, different scenes I have planned for the story keep playing out in my head if I start to daydream or when I drift off to sleep. And since I want to make this my own personal “ideal” version of the story, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what it is that makes a good Beauty and the Beast tale.

She never meant to fall in love with a human. Seeing one at all was a rarity, this deep in the woods. But pixies were only supposed to concern themselves with the flowers they tended to and adored. Even under the thick branches of the old growth forest, tender plants still budded and bloomed, and had to be cared for. And she did love the flowers, she did. In fact, that was why he caught her eye in the first place and wouldn’t leave her mind.

A couple of weekends ago, I dismantled and packed away my winter decorations, and brought out the greenery, florals, and rabbits of spring!