In My Seventieth Winter (haibun)
IN MY SEVENTIETH WINTER
(haibun)
Quiet rain all night, falling asleep reading Hamlet . . .
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
And I am surprised to wake to snow, huge sloppy flakes, not really flakes but surreal Dali-esque shapes, somehow stretching, reshaping without quite falling apart, not really falling but seeping from the first gray light, and where they touch the pine boughs not a needle moving, slipping onto them and then off, melting as they touch the ground, some glistening for a moment on the fur and feathers of squirrels and birds foraging in the needles, the dove who trusts me enough to turn his back, huddled in my doorway. And then it simply suddenly stops, and soon nothing to say it had ever happened.
brief morning moon
all that remains
of the dream
Poetry by countryfog
Read 760 times
Written on 2015-03-03 at 14:52
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