There's something about trees in winter. Leafless. Vulnerable. Raw beauty. And yet, and yet, here are winter persimmons for the picking. And for the birds. Persimmon bread & cookies. An haiku unfolds in the highest branches.
Not far away, by the seat next to me, a door disturbs the place where an opening ought to be. I do not trap the feeling so much as marks, strung into a net with the hinge.
Not far away, by the seat next to me, a door disturbs the place where an opening ought to be. I do not trap the feeling so much as marks, strung into a net with the hinge.
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