Haiga Archive

the scent of
damp earth, bluebells
by the path

sand oozes
between my toes
clam holes

first light
the song of a bluebird
through my window

equinox
… within the ending
so many beginnings

the taste of silence
…those things
not meant
to be

offshore wind…
rain slants
into sun

This is the way it will end. Not with poetry or fine wine or a second chance, but with burning pyres of lego and bathmats and the New York Times. There are always those that think they can go back, if they could only go back, just once, they could change everything.