another haibun

This spring is fragile. Thaw and snow, thaw and snow. The crocuses come up anyway; they always do. Every year they open up, like love taking a stupid risk, and every year they get clobbered. Little Jesus flowers, every year for Easter.

Another late snow yesterday, that didn't stick but stung the face, flakes almost like acupuncture needles. I have been sick before but this is different. When you are sick you get better. I'm not going to get better. I'm going to get worse. Or … the pain will get worse; my writing, my marriage, my prayer will get better. Not one step up and two steps back, but a sliding back on one track, inching forward on others. Almost I feel it – a movement behind the lungs. A sliding of the body apart, a lengthening, an attenuation.

a fallen pine branch:

yellow needles among the shoots

of crocuses