Haibun: Debris Removal
There comes a time when you or I need to pay attention to our thoughts. For me, sometimes the words and stories I tell myself build up like the dead branches in my haiku. Sure they were once alive and useful for the moment, but look at them, they are now debris in my sub-vocalizations. They are in the way.
Even in winter the sun makes the arms grow red with burn as each branch is hauled off. By the 10th or 11th load, the sweat that would form on the brow has likely evaporated, but maybe they are the branches of shame, maybe a dead branch from a narrative of fear, but still each lifeless branch bleached by the desert sun must go.
The adventures that await me, or you, need this debris of the mind to be removed. Each time we walk around it it takes away our energy to go further. And when we try to step over it, our legs are scratched more than the average desert jaunt or trek.
But when the debris is removed, it is removed and the start of a journey over the ridge and another ridge is clearer and the smile that wrinkles the eyes with joys remembered can come across our face.
dead, no advances, in piles.
how winter dances
