Haibun

so long quiet night . . .
the cacophony
of a world awake
is bewitched
by itself

This tale begins at dawn. Eyelids flutter open. Daylight spills in. Covers unfurl. Feet touch the floor. A quick stop at the loo, then off to brew some coffee. Turn on the morning news. Got to catch up with the spinning earth.

Brush teeth, comb hair, and throw on some rags—it’s a rush to beat the morning rush—don’t want to be late. There’s nothing worse than being late.

Don’t forget the keys. It’s a short walk to the train but there’s a long cue at the turnstile. Got to catch that train—don’t want to be late.

Clickety-clack hums the wheels on the rails—cars filled with people with somewhere to go—for a moment, somewhere together. Then we spill onto the street like scattered leaves, minds with different thoughts to fulfill. This swirling soup of energy, one can almost see it breathing. The beating heart of this chaotic dance, one can almost feel it bleeding.

The city wakes from an evening’s dreaming. I merge with it and become obscure. Walking through the throng, I wonder, “Is this what I’m seeking?”

another today
passes by . . .
a soft wind blows
through the fog
in my mind

First Published in Haibun Today

---

Outside the cabin, a smaller, child-size log cabin once sat next to the driveway. Over the years, a coven of spiders and wood ticks took it over, the forest slowly staking a claim, gravity wresting it back into the ground. We never played there. Who wants cobwebs in their hair, much less nightmares on the brain? There were bear claw-marks in the wood, for crying out loud. No telling how many creatures chewed on that shack, and the fallen pine needles on the roof left a musty Hansel and Gretel feel. Little children could get lost in there.

Finally, someone dismantled it, the children grew up, and the ghost stories surrounding it gradually subsided into memories of fear we’ve almost now forgotten.

one stone gathers moss—
what looks like rain
is just a cloudy day

First published in Haibun Today

---

The eight-year-old boy can’t reach the first branch of the largest of a pair of maples in the front yard so he settles for the lowest branch of the smaller tree. He easily pulls himself up into the first crotch and pauses there, planning his route to the top of his favorite aviary. He knows each branch like the back of his hand, every step, every handhold. He starts to climb, one limb at a time.

As the boy ascends, the branches get smaller and more flexible. He can feel himself now swaying gently in the wind. He can almost (but not quite) poke his head out of the leaves at the top of the tree before he’s forced to stop climbing. Here he tucks a leg into the fork between two branches and settles in. First, he senses the breeze gently evaporating the sweat from his climb. Then he feels the sun poking through the few leaves hovering above his wandering eyes. Eventually, the sound of those rustling leaves bleeds into his awareness. All would be silent if it weren’t for the rhythm of the leaves and the chirping of an unseen bird. The boy is where he needs to be. A robin lights on the branch beside him. He wishes he could fly.

dancing
with a cricket…
moonrise 

First published in Haibun Today 12:2

---

I’m alone in the desert—sand in my mouth. The skies have scorched me. The wind has blown me from mirage to mirage. But I’ll reach for your hand till I find a way out. You don’t have to be perfect, just right for me. I walk across a dune, another and another. I’m a shadow in a dream, what’s left of me. When I come to your oasis and the moon finally rises, I’ll drink from your well, begin to believe it was all worth the pain.

temperature rising . . .
what I would give
to ride a cloud

First published in Haibun Today

---

Sam adjusts his tie and steps off the porch, the light blue feather tucked in his hatband—a gift from a friend. The sidewalk is alive with shoes today. His cane taps along as he sets off to work.

Miranda meets him at the corner, clutching her pink handbag. He greets her with a smile. They chit-chat over old times as they walk together to his office. They discuss plans for dinner and agree to meet after work. He goes inside.

She continues two more blocks to the school crossing, where the guard waves her across with a batch of children. She smiles at the man and offers a thank you.

The man holds up his sign until all are safely across. Stepping to the curb, he explains to one girl how he had to cross the street all by himself when he was young. The story makes her happy that he is there.

The girl heads into school and her classroom. The teacher calls her name and she responds with a cheerful chirp, “I’m here.” The teacher smiles and puts a gold star in the roster next to her name.

After school lets out, the teacher is busy grading the day’s assignments when the principal stops by. “I had a wonderful day with the class,” she tells him.

He smiles, leaves her to her papers and heads out to the parking lot where he encounters a boy on a bike. The boy is ecstatic about his booming home run at baseball practice this afternoon. The principal gives him a high-five and the boy whizzes off.

Waiting at the light, the boy watches a couple cross the street, he with a cane, she with a pink purse tucked under her arm. The man tips his hat and the boy smiles back, catching a glimpse of what was once his feather.

quiet moon . . .
thank you for taking the time
to shine

First published in Haibun Today, 13:4

---

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

Serena strolls down the sidewalk, thumbing through her treasured collection of Emily Dickinson poems, not unlike a typical teenager scrolling through their Facebook feed. She studies the rhyme, cadence, and metaphors woven into the lines—reaching inside for the essence entwined in the fluid strokes of Emily’s pen. She skips over cracks in the pavement, conscious of each click of her steps. To her, the air is fresh and crisp. To her, the sky is a never-before-seen shade of blue. The music of songbirds from a nearby oak merges with the taste of the syllables on her lips. The words hold her hands, guide her through the city to the river’s edge . . . each moment a new possibility to ponder . . . each breath another lifetime to live.

bird’s-eye view
the glow of a rising moon
branch to branch

Note: Emily Dickinson’s line above is from her poem, ‘“Hope” is the thing with feathers.’

First published in The Haibun Journal

---

frosty hospital window—
from this bed
my reflection for a view

After spending a sleepless night listening to my ticker for the slightest irregularity—even the ones in my imagination—I finally doze off just before dawn. The cardiologist wakes me an hour later, accompanied by my favorite nurse, Carol, and tells me my heart is in good shape. It just pops out of me like air out of a balloon: “That must mean I have a good heart.”

His glare could freeze anti-freeze. “Carol has your discharge papers,” he grunts before swaggering out of the room.

code blue—
x-ray his funny bone
for signs of life—stat

First published in cattails

---

For anyone
Who’s ever loved me
Each who stopped to care
For the prayers
And helping hands
The smiles and the laughter.

What means so much to me is that you thought of me.
That is why I love you—you think of others.
You have been yourself with me.

spring rain
in fertile soil
a seed

---

We danced through spring, held hands all summer, embarked on strolls through groves of falling leaves.

Beside the fire, this winter’s eve, crackles in our ears simmer with the echoes of fearless whispers. Hearts as warm as the old stone hearth, we’ve sparks in our eyes this breathless night. A gentle snow is falling outside, settling deep in drifts of timeless moments.

brewing hot cocoa . . .
the way you fan the embers
to reignite the flame

---

“All you have to do is stare into the sun until you start seeing angels. Gravity will do the rest.”

flexing his muscles
the brainiac
stubs his toe

---