November 20

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Awakened at midnight
by the sound of the water jar
cracking from the ice

Basho, I’m too well-acquainted
with the small of the night,

the lonely hours that pull
one out of sleep, so desperate

for company.
Seeing only frost

from my window,
a hoary silence,

and lacking discernment,
I thought it had snowed.

It’s noon, now,
golden, and I’m a foreigner

to myself.


(I don’t normally do writing challenges but was tempted by this great post by Crow, to spend three days exploring quotes as writing prompts. Expect more Basho…)



  1. Pingback: November 20 | The Black Jounal

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