Haiku365

Flushing memories
through soil, to annihilate
their devastation.

Manipulating
more quickly than it happens,
every time you step.

Inside, a tunnel
of warm and shifting verbiage
envelopes the day.

Justifiably,
but not necessarily,
we grow complacent.

Lucid, and floating
the thought of letting a warm
trickle become flush.

Small arms, fleece curdled
and clinging around one wrist,
as I pull him out.

This morning, the snow
is returning, flake by flake,
like volcano ash.

Above my left side
and cold, behind me, the moon
may be my angel.

Wind, finally chilled,
hurtles through and around me,
my limbs are splayed, wide.

Thick, unbidden split
branches meander, drawing
me aside again.