I’ve started to feel like the garden pond. All inky darkness and sheet glass front, spiked in hoarfrost but more vicious than beautiful. Instead of budding, unfolding into spring, I’m sitting silent. Even the pigeons hesitate by my edge, pressing tentative toes to the surface, unsure of my stability. When the temperatures rise, I stay frozen.
Inside winter had no time to settle. The dining room is full of green, from the fig tree to the pepper bush, in the corner a lemon shrub. A rose I bought two years ago is late to bloom though. It grows but all it gives are leaves which turn to brittle crunch in the dustpan. I am starting to give up hope that I will see any flowers.
I know spring will come,
I know this winter will end.
I must learn to wait.
I feel I might have missed the mark with my response to tonight Haibun Challenge. It’s not so much a budding poem as a frozen one, but with the recent weather in England it hasn’t felt very much like spring I’m afraid.