My ears promenade the wetland, a thicket of muffling from the splashing shoreline, while our elevated path, as unvisited as poetry books in library, tunnels through the dense mangrove swamp. The morning tide recedes to uncover the tangled roots, indulging the shrubs a whiff of spring’s moist, yeasty air. I stroll down the green galleria behind my little boy, beneath the vault of a veiled sky.
On olive canvas
Winter breathes her last ashore —
Ashen is the wind
Note: The haibun, a juxtaposition of prose and verse, was prompted by dVerse’s Haibun Monday, on taking a forest bath.