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…)

 

6 Comments

  1. Pingback: November 20 | The Black Jounal

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