It's going on all the time, second by nanosecond under our very eyes, but only when there are big enough bundles of accumulated moments along a timeline do we sheaf them together and call it change. After months away, I revisit holiday haunts, accustoming, noting absences, novelties, further decay. The abandoned houseboats have sunk a little more; they feel like old friends, family even, their decrepitude as familiar as an unfamiliarity with my own mother. I hear there are further cracks in her health; she moves painfully at the end of the rope she has been unwinding since the 1920s. I see her only when I look in the mirror. The tides are stripping us all back into skeletons.
birds nest below deck
houseboat seasoned to soft wood
ice will sculpt a wreck
Sadly Toni is temporarily leaving the DVerse slot and this is written for the last for a while Haibun Monday:Change.
PoetryPix 