By Ollie Lewis
A bear sits across from a bunny, on a log, in the lime aftertaste of an evening.
It is of no concern.
“Bunny?” the Bear asks.
“Do you have trouble loving me?”
See, nature cannot break a lover’s worry.
If you love someone, you will worry whether you are harming them again and again, no matter bunny nor bear nor human nor ant.
Worry does not discriminate between the sizes of your hearts; it will always find a way in.
And still, so will love.
And so it is of no concern,
when Bunny looks at Bear;
the lime lit shadow plastered across her face,
fortifying her fretting like the night itself is drawn taught in anticipation of Bunny’s response.
When Bunny looks at Bear,
he can feel the breeze shift around him with the weight of her pulsing breath,
and it worries him.
It worries him deeply,
for he is not immune to such worry, though his heart be smaller than Bear’s, and so
it is of no concern,
when Bunny moves toward her,
pushing his hind legs out from the log,
and pressing himself into Bear,
squeezing his love into her.
It is of no concern,
when Bunny smiles at the waving grass,
eases his head onto Bear,
“I am quite particular about who I love.
I have no trouble loving.”
And yet still concerned, Bear asks,
“But who am I?”
And Bunny whispers—just quiet enough so as to not disturb the grass in front of him—
“You are kind and lovely. I need not be concerned about anything else.”