This haibun is for Frank Tassone’s challenge, our thoughts on freedom.

There is a place where nothing holds the arms at our sides, feet on the ground, the love trapped inside tight-bolted hearts. They call it freedom. Free to hold, to fly, to love, but always, the cord that trails behind, through dark nights and bright days pulls tight at the last before we touch the stars. A voice calls, “Wait for me. Don’t go.” So we ravel up our dreams and blow a kiss to the stars and curl around the mundane and the dutiful, and try to make it glow.

Night sky, star-flowered,

too high to walk its dark paths,

I smell the roses.