(Oil, ” Summer Dusk”, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2002)
WHAT IS THE PROBLEM WITH THE INTERNET TODAY??? I CAN’T ACCESS ANY BLOG THAT ISN’T WORDPRESS, AND THEN, HARDLY. I WANT TO READ OTHER HAIBUNS BUT I AM BEING STOPPED. PERHAPS THIS WILL WORK ITSELF OUT, BUT UNTIL IT DOES, I APOLOGIZE FOR NOT COMMENTING. IT’S TAKEN ME AN HOUR JUST TO READ THREE BLOGS! KNOW I WANT TO READ YOUR HAIBUNS! THIS FORM SEEMS TO BRING OUT THE BEST OF PROSE/POETRY IN US ALL.-
Kanzen Sakura over at dversepoets pub has offered a wonderful prompt. A meditational walk in the forest, along the shore line, anywhere there is a healing nature to a stroll. Here, I have only a fourth of a acre, three miles from downtown Atlanta, but I have my gardens, and the sky to relax within. And a gentle and sometimes rude Nature that brings these gifts to my feet.
My solitude shared-
night time crickets and an owl
the moon must approve
soft moonbeam filters dust motes
a thousand fish swim upstream
It is late afternoon, winter by calendar, spring by temperament. The radishes have pushed above the dark soil, and look promising.
Two cats and I are sitting on a retaining wall that retains nothing, except Madame Alfred Carriere and Graham Thomas. They both have climbed to the second story and are looking in the windows, watching us sleep. I am surrounded by budding nature, the canna lilies brush my thighs with tenderness, making room for me. I sigh and relax into the gathering dusk.
Last night I heard the wood owls. Their demonic chattering scared me into the chicken coop to stand guard with a rake, nervous as the hens. Now I know they are only six inches tall and can’t eat me.
When I die, I want my ashes scattered on this garden. Then, my ash-hands will caress the seedlings from below, my ash-heart will take pride in their growth, and my ash-ears will still hear those wood owls.
The moon is rising, a beggar’s cup too thin to fatten the soil. Mourning doves chant their benediction and swallows tumble like sickles in the failing light. The dark embraces all below. I am healed from the day’s tribulations. The sounds of the urban give way to the enchantment of the Night.
The soil our bed
Our classroom and our graves.
Reborn to the world.