I walk in the field and look for withered grass that could be used for my artwork. When I return, my pants usually catch or maybe been caught by grass seeds. That is how they distribute the seeds. But the ones on my pants are unfortunate, for they all fell on the hard tile floor rather than on the dirt ground so they can begin new lives. Too bad.
3 comments:
old typewriter
on the tape the imprints
of my father's soul
***
father's poetry
his old typewriter the gift
for a psychiatrist
beautiful description of your father's typewriter ribbon as the depository of his soul!
Moving haiku. It's really interesting that my haiga triggered your writing these poems.
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