These days lag behind like a widow turning just so, expecting her husband to come around the corner at any moment, hesitating in case. They seem to turn back on themselves—these days—reversing day for night, sun for moon, body for spirit. Dreams populate the minutes, the hours, the days one after the other and yet in this movement there is no progression; there is sound but no music. It is as if I have come upon my own funeral, my own well dug grave, and now I must lie in it . . .
the garden roses
leaning toward darkness
Note: Haibun reprited from Frogpond 35.3, 2013