I see through a glass, darkly, A Haibun

like a newlywed standing by her wooden mailbox,
like a hungry spider lurking in its dewy net,
like a spring seed breathing under heavy snow,
with fixed attention I’ve been looking
at the end of the winding road
where He is supposed to emerge

winter twilight
between the pages of Job
a wooden cross

Haibun Today, 9:1, March 2015