haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

White violets, viewed pencil thin, a meadow changed. What is it you were saying? Timetables, warbling doves,
a minus sign as far from here as Ralph, who glimmers in the sotto vision of remorse. I try to bask without a
prompt, and then what harbinger awaits? The limited endearment of a crush, a creche, a camisole until
I wash away already pale recall of brittle words that tone down peace. He worded things to make me interfere
with my own maxims. Then the day came when informal solitude resumed a quest removed once from
revocable agreements. Diminishing self in the wake of ocean rush. Parched daylight, desert as a way of
life, recursive overcast. This way we water down amenities, if only to survive their passing.

Gleam to glimmer, voice-over gone silver, thin new moon appearing

Sheila E. Murphy