There's snow coming fast out of the white sky. The distance blurs: only half way across the campus, the blockish tower of the library is soft as if seen through a scrim. Trees, buildings, the air itself: everything preoccupied with grey.
It's strange. Near my window the snow streaks downward. Across the quad it seems to hang in the air. I read the other day that each snowflake falls for an hour. It seemed sad -- or at least poignant, sabi -- those mayfly lives.
how thin -- the hours
away from my daughter
________
This haibun is also a renga, sort of. The first stanza is the last stanza from SB's poem of February 15th, and is used this way with her permission.
Sharon is a favourite poet of mine; I think her naturalist, understated work stands up to nearly any company, including perhaps some she'd like to keep: Mary Oliver, Grace Schulman, Margaret Chula, Naomi Wakan. I wish she had a book so that I could take it up to bed with me like a cup of gingered tea. We tried to play renga once and somehow I ran out of steam. Maybe we'll play again someday. It would be a joy.
Oh. My.