Half in half out

the puddle by the back door,

keys lost since first snow...

Spring has come. The brightening light; the song of birds returned from southern sojourns; the blush of buds, yellow and pink and rust; the up-thrusting green from dirt dark with snow melt— From where are we born, with such vigor? The sound of running water; the earthy musk of rotting leaves released from ice; the squirrel dissolving under those leaves; the wind’s chill fingers raising goose bumps— Where do we go when we die? I feel my body thrumming, carrying on— How does it know what to do?— bringing nutrients to my brain for instance, so my mind can wonder again, and again, What does it mean, this interlude, being alive….

Upturned to the sky -

their dew-dappled

yellow bowls. [Lorraine]

*What is a Haibun?