The whittling down of a grandiloquent tale to seventeen syllables. Getting the juice from it to its purist form wrings the neck of a piece of writing so tight that all that’s left is the essence of its meaning, a haiku. Five seven five. The dear sweet poems of eternity.
Pictures in pure form
Whittled down grandiloquence
wrung word by sweet word.
***
My wrinkled hands tap
A curled knuckle against my mouth
A mind that won’t rest
***
Miles of beads and lights
Ornaments from Christmas past
Santa has been here
***
Squirrel on the log
Digs for acorns in the leaves
Snow sticks to his fur
***
An oak leaf twitches
Misty snow piles on the fence
December backdrop
***
Evergreen branches
Dance and sway under the snow
Its leaves are heavy
Devonne Brown 
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