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Thursday, September 13, 2012

Three Rivers


Drought.
Flood.
Clear water.

One empties the pantry.
One empties the town.
One empties the self.

1 comment:

  1. Dr. MikeSeptember 13, 2012 at 9:32 PM


    Accounts

    An incremental
    Whittling down to splinters gives
    Time its sharp edge.

    Miniscule as motes,
    Like dark spiders in sunlight,
    Webs of music throb.

    There, against the pulse,
    To stand out, a human song
    Or scream writhes its tail.

    Asymmetrical,
    The intruder alters threads
    Until no harp plays.

    [Disposable Haiku September 13, 2012]
    Dr. Mike

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