haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

She asked the softest questions about number I believed were hard as future rust.

I learned from what she asked, my answers would soon dry. In the room with us

was canvas, stretched across some wooden bars. I worked on composition

far from challenges. She wondered whether I had saved, and I acknowledged

that, of course, a little bit. She warned me not to fear. I bore the nickname

Baby Angel, as it fit my clothes. It fit the future beyond old paths. A color

I had not pronounced came forth, as wind propelled. The loft felt full

of sleep. Accordingly, the light diminished where it had served. And color fell

across the page. Whole green endowments strained to have occured. No minute

after breeds the needed math. Stalled wisdom rises from the place before

one looks away. Wholeness per usual, deferred.

Auras derived from their root systems, mild glow above the underground,

and you there, silvery or so

Sheila E. Murphy