A sculptor shares his Thunder Bunny.

The Blueness of it hints of hidden graces.

Pedestrians pass it daily, hardly looking,

And to them, it seems ever the same fixture.

But as each pair of eyes peer onto its skin,

The bunny becomes someone’s reminder

Of a loved pet, of a favorite book, of a thing

Held tight to the chest, unwilling to let go.

The sculpture becomes the linking form

That ties each person to another.

That blue links to a sky blue and black,

To the Middle River where an old man finds a fish

That feeds the famished diner at the café

Around the corner on Wilton Drive.