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Contents Page: Jan 1, 2012, vol 7 no 4

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Jeffrey Woodward


This climate is too cold; this light, day after day, further abridged. The sky is everlasting, albeit flat and gray. I did not notice this on walks to school, but now—under an antique sun—I detect this constancy and nothing more.

Perhaps I should wake up in Florida, instead.

My hair is cloud-like—colorless and prey to the wind. That, at least, shall not last. Perhaps I should not make the bed.

a green potted plant
at the window, also—
light from the snow

one world within,
one world without—
a snowman

First published in Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose #2 2009.

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