Lost: one mind. Last seen in childhood. Answers to nobody. Limited vocabulary. If found, please rip out its tongue and return with the last word uttered.
“In my school in Wales, a poem was read aloud each morning before lessons. And I remember clearly being mesmerized by Dylan Thomas’s ‘Fern Hill’ at seven years of age. Nowadays, though the rhythms of ‘Fern Hill’ have stayed with me, I’ve become increasingly drawn to starker prose combined with haiku. I write haibun for its ability to release memories. Sometimes of joy. More often, those buried in the past.”
