The world is swathed in snow, but — for once — the wind is still.
I try writing exercises to spark creativity, but what I produce instead is bad haiku.
Trees wear white garments
woven on a snowy loom.
Silence. A hawk cries.
an exiled beetle bumbles
in a warm corner.
And then there’s this truly tortured haiku:
Mere glass yet staunch guard,
the window staves cold, wards heat,
lets light, stands sentry.
Nope. No more poetry. It’s fiction for me today.
And the world sighs in relief. 😉