How to kill, read and think
The point, says Basho, is a sense of Aware. I read and write and mix stories like paint, hoping to one day decipher the picture they create.
Haibun writers are clover roots. Hungry tips dappled in the land they are wide reaching, easily transplanted.
I think about moments in time. About stories, and being transplanted. “I’m sorry.” The thought plays over and over again. “You told your story. I didn’t listen.” The sound of being out of time sneaks up.
Shocked spider running back to
warmth, froze in the grass