Mar 242011
 

The parchment touch of her hand flutters weakly within the supple warmth of mine as I read quietly to her from Doctor Zhivago. Other words do not seem to have a place as stillness settles within a summer evening’s light.

ravages of winter
on the grave’s mound
as her presence fades

 

First published in October 2010 issue of
contemporary haibun online

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