Marjorie A. Buettner...



So it is the leaves then that make the walker want to confess; they have their own compulsion tonight to live beyond themselves, eddying around me as if they were Dervishes in a fatal dance. Commingling with this dance is the scent of something dying; I want to roll in it like a dog luxuriating in decay, but instead I am carried away by their final flight, caught in a part of this death-dance on a cold October night. The leaves become a part of what we can never confess until they fly from us, released like tears from the eyes, by this encompassing wind.

sneezing at work-- my Somali friend blesses me

WHCHaibun 2008-10-28

Copyright Marjorie Buettner, 2008