Tuesday, November 23, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


Smoke made no sense unto itself. One awaited clarity supposed to come along unaided. Passivity redirects as though tacitly un-verbed. The greenery around this house comes from my mind. While leaves outside absorb the water. When it rains the water melts a thought. And clouds return solution. Play clothes foster mood. The only way around this neighborhood is through the coffee line. And with the radio tuned to another language, all the learning in the world uplifts. What dazzles unearths what does not. Informal wilderness alongside strays. Rays of the sun afford a vitamin. It's litmus here amid the chalk tones of the town. I used to like to walk along a pond. My accompanist played beautifully. I talked, still do, unless alone again. The syllables make peace with selves. When light dries, there are the children to reveal. Then sadness as a staple leaves the mind a while. I go lie down as though someone had warned me there is only so much energy. There is only so much energy. I light something. Hear myself think. Notice how the world becomes its own accumulation.

Shades drawn freehand, gray lines blended into no lines, thought not transferable

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