A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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June 2009, vol 5 no 2

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Roger Jones



Asleep with my arm under my pillow and stretched so that my hand hangs loose off the bed, palm upward, I dream that someoneís hand enters mine a moment. Itís soft, warm, smooth, small. My motherís hand. As I close my hand to squeeze, her hand slips out and off my fingertips, as if in goodbye. I dream Iím waking up. The hand is not my motherís but my wifeís Ė an affectionate touch before she leaves for work. But then I wake up for real: sheís been gone for hours.

autumn morning
patches of light and shadow
on a stone floor

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