Lush green foliage soaked with mature gold sunlight, hot as summer, but death curls frogs and insects like the promise of cold. The centre of our busy lives lit by mosquito smoke as we say, bone-deep and slow: I love you, it will be ok, oh how I miss you when I’m gone.

So briefly exchange

our most precious insights, to

hold love in the abyss

Day 12: Haibun. I have been curious about this form for a while. Not sure I got it right – a prose poem involving nature that ends with a haiku.