by Maryanne Hannan

Time to start shoveling. Freezing out here. Better take off the ring. Her mother’s, or was it her aunt’s? Doesn’t matter. A legacy. An heirloom. Small stone, thinning band. Lots of ups and downs in the lives of the women in her family. Now all gone. Six feet under, so to speak. She didn’t want to lose their ring, as she shoveled her way out of her snowbound house. That night, shaking her empty pockets, she looked forward to spring.

tea water boiling
crocheted cozy—
stale biscuit

A resident of upstate New York, Maryanne Hannan has recently discovered the glorious possibilities of haibun. She has published poetry in Drifting Sands, Rattle, Spillway, Cider Press Review, and elsewhere.