Devonne Brown

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.

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My wrinkled hands tap

A curled knuckle against my mouth

A mind that won’t rest

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Miles of beads and lights

Ornaments from Christmas past

Santa has been here

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Squirrel on the log

Digs for acorns in the leaves

Snow sticks to his fur

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An oak leaf twitches

Misty snow piles on the fence

December backdrop

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Evergreen branches

Dance and sway under the snow

Its leaves are heavy