Quietness

The mismatched, cross-stitched quietness of wool;

The soft cotton buds soaked from the Fox's wounds.

There's beauty in unspoken acknowledgement;

The niceness of the darkness is gentle, thoughtful.

Fox's howls, harmonising gracefully with the stars' melodramatic quietness.

And we see how the dandelions grow.

Pay attention to the Fox; a forgotten, sly thing.

The being with a heartbeat, despite the snake's venom still bristling through its canopies and canyons.

There's comfort, the Fox realises

In observing;

As the flirtatious, flamboyant owl scans for prey;

Every chance to be noticed in its spray-painted glamour,

Taken for its prized gemstone eyes.

They don't realise the Fox's rhinestones are brimmed with diamonds,

Not the false magnetism of rubies and sapphires.

Rare, but hollow.

Diamonds sprouted, excruciatingly, from the Fox's fur,

But the tufts of wool they ripped were fragile regardless.

The stitches broke with ease,

Covering their rooted joys; the depths from which they'd climbed.

Answers expectantly laid out for the eyes unknown

Who imagine the Fox as Frankenstein's monster.

The thing we fear, the thing we hide from.

Imperfect with it's glistening tears,

Howling and loud, despite the wind that chases the ribbons it carries.

The snakeskins it shed, the wool it collects -

The Fox's beauty as a creature, alive and scarred

The Fox's story as a poem, unbridled and confusing

Find the Fox's eyes and wipe its snout

The Fox snarls because many hands have done the same.

It has found its shield of diamonds; wool.

The Fox, among daisy fields and dandelions

Is cautious, protective.

Walking among landmines and caves,

The strangers who snarl also at hands who threaten the Fox

And forgive the Fox for its many clever traps,

Are the ones who will be gifted diamonds;

Reflecting the Fox's eyes in their own.

~