Gone. Too soon our celebrations done. Customs. Quaint. Traditions and rites. That was then. But now, on this stretch of unhurried street, all’s quiet. It seems tarnished. Drowned in icy rain and galvanised sky. A Christmas tree hidden between bins and the wall. It’s seen happy days — good will and peace on earth. Now it’s just tinsel on a breeze. Memories catch in my throat as silence walks and talks in great secrecy. I stomp my boots on the porch steps. Boots love January.
Rain, a cutting scythe,
long and straight as wet sticks.
Come spring, I’ll sit on this porch
for dVerse Haibun “January” and Twiglet #108 “in great secrecy”
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