We don’t pay attention well. Well, maybe I don’t pay attention well. Seasons come and go. The winds are furious today, and will be tomorrow, they say. They say. I listened through the night. It made such a fuss, all that howling while everyone sleeps, or tries to. Oh, I was safe, and warm, and full, and strangely comforted with the whistling. Dad used to whistle when he drove the car. I never could.
April will be here in a few days, and we will think of March no longer. It will come around again, next year. But will we still be here? Is the thought enough to pay attention well? What does the wind say? How long is enough for one to stay?
One week of blossom
So little time of beauty
Springs perfume lingers
dversepoets.com Haibun Monday and cherry blossom haikus. I cannot remember a windier March than this one.