All Flesh is Hay

In memoriam Aemilia, beloved friend and rabbit.

We laid out leaves, old grass, and made your bed.
Each time you rushed on silent feet, sharp-eyed,
and ripped and tore, spun fast and tossed your head,
all touches answered by your thumped reply.

Time mellowed you (and me, and us) you fought
each moment less. Though still you loved, explored,
you rarely found the treasure that you sought
in hidden corners burrowed through the floor.

At last you fell, and only hopped with aid.
The hands, refused before, now held you up
when you could stand, and smoothed down where you laid,
until your pain o'erfilled your little cup.

All flesh is hay. For all will come an end
in earth. And while we wait, we bury friends.