The Offering

I am not a poet, but I do write poems for class, when I have to.

A burning red vixen makes her way home in the freezing winter night
Chocolate-colored paws carve four-pronged foot prints in the icy ivory snow
Weaving a tattered tale of weary wandering through the desolate woods
In her maw she holds a meager meal, a single skinny silver hare
The thick-furred fruit of her long labors, scarcely a mouthful
It is not nearly enough to quell the dissent that brews in bellies at home
Where wet brown eyes eagerly await her safe return
In them longs a hope unfulfilled, a hunger for the fattened hen
Always hung forever out of reach

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