Today the world is grey. The clouds are light grey, like the aluminum cookie cutters mother keeps in a kitchen drawer. Rain soaks the mountains; like the bark on an oak tree as it absorbs water, turns dark and darker. The river is a dirty grey, almost matching the road in tone if not texture. Even people look grey, wrapped by oil-cloth slickers in dull drab shades of grey and black. My azalea-red boots appear out of place, as I stomp each puddle on the way to school.
all those numbers looming
This haibun poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.
Joann Grisetti grew up in Sasebo Japan and eighteen other places. She now lives in Florida with her husband and two sons. Her poetry, photos and stories have appeared in a number of print and online journals.
The Ekphrastic Review
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