Who craves this combustible atmosphere, rumors for paramours and oracular paths beneath barkskins? The wild grass is bleached before June and everyone is swayed in the winds. Sharpened filigrees of justifications out the mouths of the all dried out, heartwood to pith, for why it is good to have caged babes in the hazy periphery. “There are not enough drops of rain to quench us all.” Coveting love as if it were limited.
But it is engulfing thinking like this that creates the arid climate of their demise.
A spark of fear spreads
Brittle twigs snap in flame’s hiss
Conscience up in smoke
©2018, Amaya Engleking
For the dVerse haibun prompt, Jilly asks us to look at seasons in an unconventional way.