haibun
it begins with the stubby end of winter. cold stings bones and bank accounts groan low notes. LED strings have been balled up and stuffed into boxes. discarded conifers have amassed enough dog piss to be slung onto council vans and fed to the jaws of the chipper. january resembles a true beginning for a few hours before everything gets on with dying. nobody gets out of my way any more because the young and wealthy refuse to live in a world where it's possible for a middle aged man in glasses to kick their arse. they're right. whatever primordial hostility once puffed out this chest and eyeballed each potential threat has gone the way of hope and 2012's squirrels. in four weeks time, magnolia petals will open and I will point them out to my kids knowing that I was the one that needed them most. the petals, the kids, the incremental minutes of daylight. all of it.
forty-seventh winter – am I repeating myself?