The cruelest month
The grey days crowd together like piles of fish in the market. Short and slippery, they go by quickly, flashing into the deeper nights. You're drawn under and you hold your breath while your head throbs. Looking up at the dim and dappled blue light, you wait, tumbling like freefall, like a class IV washing machine. Until one day the undertow shifts and spits you out, wrinkled and gasping, stumbling onto the bright and gritty shores of spring.
one day the dark light
will spread gently into spring's
golden green halo
Click on the photo for a larger version. The title of this haibun is borrowed from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land.