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Adelaide B. Shaw
a river view
between the ash trees
smaller each year;
what I could have seen
in an earlier life
a great white oak
felled to the forest floor
by old age;
over three hundred years
and its time had come
abandoned farm –
the buildings bequeathed
to the crows and wind;
across the fields ghostly forms
in the flying dust
vast hills and meadows
the same as before
yet not the same;
filled with expectations
of something unknown
afternoon mending –
a breeze through the window
stirs a reverie;
what guiding spirit led me
to this comfort zone
sea rocks –
the sharp edges covered with
moss and lichen;
a crab scurries, secure
in its element
the retarded young man
with deliberate care
bags my groceries;
I curb my need to hurry
and return his smile
rain clouds –
the bleakness of November
made darker;
two months since I've heard your voice,
two months of early winter
Adelaide B. Shaw writes haiku, tanka and haibun, as well as short stories. Her work has appeared in a number of journals. She lives with her husband of 46 years in a small town in upstate New York.
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