if this poem had been a haiku
there would have been a bullfrog,
a bullfrog sitting
up to his eyes in a pond
inhabiting one world
but seeing another
and when we step closer to look
a jump, a splash then ripples on the water
above the pond, a butterfly
clinging to a willow leaf
opens and closes her wings,
swaying back and forth
pushed by a gentle breeze
and when that breeze calms
the only thing that moves
on these snowy pages
is the eye of the black bird
I sigh ---
if this had been a haiku
it would have been finished
many syllables ago,
the ink would have dried,
the paper neatly folded
into the shape of a boat
and set on a slow moving stream
amongst scattered plum blossoms
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