haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

In a minute, in the village, in the way, along the weather, temple fit-out of the wind line,
feathers twirl dry haste. Veil falls from sky. Exceedingly, the instant relays
cleansed miniature mind plots. A curious appearing window, not quite square.
Leisure of hereby looking-in. Rubbed stateroom entry vowel tones. A vibrato. How we
wait for sustenance, thus blended, in contentment. Tray left home, to house a plenary
retreat. Some stain, some winter from the sentence left to say a better remnant. One way
of fingering an effete note, reading hold signs. A long poem rendered via voice alone.
Piece played within the space. A fraction of the tempo laid to rest, best practice.
Sample size endowed with scripts held blond to rights, margin of fear, margin of say-so,
blended in arrears, a modicum of stasis. Vows and fate and semblances. The reins let go
into a village, gainshare, housing, window. Forenoon, called a little fate. Enriching sun in
meadow.

Freight drawn across, a fraction of the moon upon a time line, notes along the snow

Sheila E. Murphy