for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

pondering, a haibun


am i done? nibbling patterns on pavements leave white spaces in my eye. the breeze nuzzling cypress tips seems but a gymnastic exercise. young crows pecking at grass echo yesterday’s chore and the day before and before. browning grass the way same time last year their death. the wrinkled sky a day too soon like my skin since last summer. do mountains ever grow? the tide at English Bay wear out the same seams i left footmarks last year and the year before.  what’s left of the raccoon colony by the Lost Lagoon? the old woman feeding ducks wears the same straggly hat. she calls the blue heron by another name. same voice to which i answer. we speak in symbols by the glass pond. what is sky? am i a stone? am i who I’m not? when I am?


creeping among rushes leftover thunder


August 7, 2014 - Posted by | haibun

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