They are the 37 that understand my meaning of joy. I am the one who returns joy back. 37 rapturous rabbits with fuzzy pot bellies and white cotton tails. 37 of them just hopping around as they please.37 rabbits frolicking in the long strut yellow pattered grass, untainted from society. Just a glimpse out my window I see these gleams of a dream, but if only it were a dream.

Their joy is secret. They send fluffy towering bunny ears towards the blue musk sky. Their paws rustle the grass below and grasp upon the earth and never stop being joyous. This is how they play.

Let one forget their reason for being, they’d all bounce like droplets of water off waxy leaves, each growing more found to each other as if family. Remember, remember, remember, they say when I leave my home. They play.

When I am too deprived of joy and become meek to keep from remembering, when I am the rabbit who finally leaves to become a new leader and self. When there is nothing left to be joyous about. 37 who played. 37 who remembered rapture. 37 whose only reason to be was to be joyous.