This may be my mother’s last move. We fold old years into new boxes; rearrange the past to fit the present. But somewhere, in some bit of time-space, the what was, still is. I stare at a painting on her wall. There’s a small red figure among the winter birch trees. Have I never noticed it before, or have I forgotten? It has always been there. I see it now.
Silvered bare branches
in moonlight they dream of spring–
leaves fall, new buds bloom
A Haibun for dVerse, where Björn has asked us to write about a beginning.