A haibun published in Frogpond, vol. 31 (No. 3), 2008, p. 61:

It seems strange

to be buried in spring with the blossoms popping insects crawling flies buzzing but here I lie in deep dirt like a bulb planted the coolness the voices of passing walkers laughing sometimes scolding an errant child lovers walking hand in hand creating their own light no light here comfort snugness is snugness a real word are we there yet is it time for bed momma . . . awake the time it takes to realize it was a dream.


sunset the long thread to the hanging caterpillar

w. f. owen