It seems a shame to impose myself on a clean white page. It’s like being the first to leave tracks in newly fallen snow, or where someone has carefully raked a shaded path — unforgivable acts, though unavoidable, perhaps. And what of the garden space beside the driveway? If I’m still alive when the weather warms at last, shall I fill it again with seeds and plants, or let nature have its way?
Art and expression — my bones in mellow ground.
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Tags: Art, Bones, Earth, Expression, Haibun, Nature, Seeds, Snow, Writing