The last Monday evening in November. I ponder gratitude. Not from fireworks or bloom, not from listening to birdsong or submerging in rose-perfume of June. In autumn only evergreens and moss still mimic life; and yet there is a comfort in the humdrum of persistent drizzle, in this colorless sky and shadows of the barest branches moving darkly with the wind. I’m thankful for the humid rawness of the air; for the scent of leaves decaying in the streets. I’m pleased that every day I bicycle to work, I learn again the taste of fall.
My neighbor’s tabby, still tipsy from nightly exploits, crosses the street
We do not celebrate Thanksgiving in Sweden… so writing something about gratitude was not that easy. Next Sunday is the first of advent, and to some extent I think this time of the year, there is more a sense of doom. For me it fitted well to complement the prose with an American Sentence instead.
Today we write haibun on gratitude with Frank at dVerse come and join us.
November 25, 2019