It's Still Life

Courage

Winter is courage. It’s a well-disciplined march stopping for nothing. And it’s those middling, dead-centre winter months that possess all our complaints, and illnesses. And tragedy. Winter stalks the frail, takes them into its crushing tranquility, leaving us in deepest grief and melancholy during the whole winter journey. We are for loss of green and blossom and our loved ones. And I remember as a child, after an evening bath (and oh how glorious a warm bath was on an icy January night), the snow fell from the unruly sky, it seemed reluctant to settle and pain the ground. It swirled and danced in the streetlamps, curled into the wind, and joined flight on the wings of a white owl that every night perched on a fence post in our garden. It watched me. I watched it. The scent of the hunted. The scent of the hunter. Watched. Watching.

a slave to winter
stars of a thousand sequins
dance a dervish storm

dVerse Haibun Monday