The eye of the hare,
what jaundice hue,
therein hinted
a whole world view,
carrot-tinted,
gluttonous gleam,
taking measure
in pound and ream,
spying greens
and petals fair —
what was planted
no longer there.
A lesson life
has clearly taught:
know when your efforts
come to naught;
to try again is
laudable habit,
but not when competing
with the rabbit.
Let it go,
it wasn’t to be;
the garden this year
is plant cemetery.
Alas, dear reader, it seems not to be a year for a garden. Moss roses, daisies, marigolds, gauras, zinnias, lantana, even spiny rudbeckia — chomped. Dill? Parsley? In my dreams! What with the rabbits devouring my flowers and the cicadas dive-bombing me, I think this might be the summer I stay inside and clean my house. OK, you’re right: that’s not likely. But still I’m steamed.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg and to sculptor Jürgen Goetz, and to the rabbit that posed for Dürer’s drawing, thereby giving Goetz inspiration for his sculpture, glowering near Dürer’s house in Nürnberg. The gnarled hand under the hare is obviously the defeated gardener.
Oddments 