A stirring. Darkness ripples, and a sharp pain pierces through this enshrouding numbness. The silence once again resumes that tangible quality, the childbirth pangs of language ready to emerge.
The black molts into a brightening gray, then bleeds off like ink diluted in water. Images arise, evoking words after an everlong muteness. The echoes of a greek chorus of doubt, fear, and self-loathing fade.
A shoot thrusts through dry earth. The warmth of an infant spring season soaks into this cracked ground. For the first time in too long, whispers of poetry carry on the wind.
Slowly, awakening happens.
even
after this long winter
cherry blossoms
I’m hosting Haibun Monday over at dVerse, where we’re writing abour cherry blossoms.
The pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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