Skip to main content

seasons

Haibun: Spring

Spring turns to summer, hopes fly high. A golden romance—in my bloody fists I smell osmanthus flowers. Under the pulped sun, lovers grow young and younger.

The Cycle

Dark water, underground, Beneath the rock and clay, Beneath the roots of trees, Moved into common day, Rose from a mossy mound In mist that sun could seize. The fine rain coiled in a cloud Turned by revolving air Far from that colder source Where el [...]