inbox 13 (Winter is the Quiet Time)
Winter is the quiet time, when few venture back to see me. Sometimes on Sundays, cross-country skiers happen by. Wow, you live here? What do you do for …? I shush them; listen, the jays are fighting.
Snowshoe hares make a daily pilgrimage searching for my garden, now buried deep beneath the snow. Nothing for you here, I whisper. The berries have been picked and turned to jam, which I will not share with you.
A week’s wood to split:
Felling, stacking, and burning —
Three times it warms me.
(haibun by David Sinex)