Haibun: Tumbleweeds

As the fronts change, the winds come. When the wind comes, it means tumbleweeds. 

Iconic to the southwest are these dead shrubs blowing across the dirt paths. But on closer examinations, these tumbleweeds have no real roots. The bush grows with the water of what seems like one rain storm and’s dead and ready to be blown away with the next. The debris scatters across the desert and becomes part of its hardness, the desert's harshness and realness.

I’ve meet too many people like the tumbleweed, unrooted and gone on the next front. It's hard to remember them individually, they go with time, they blur into what preoccupies the mind. They, too, sort of lead to the hardening of our personal personas as they blow around, unrooted and gone with the wind. They leave me with a sense of not wanting to pay attention to those who will be blowing in and out of my life. 

tumbleweeds tossed ‘round

harder the wind sounds, abounds

spring, winter unbound