Posts Tagged ‘“Healing with Nature” ‘’

“Healing with Nature”: a Haibun

August 29, 2017


Flowers 2

The terrible floods out west and the continued rain there from the hurricane makes me full of gratitude for the sun and calm, almost-fall weather here in Atlanta.  The cicadas are fiddling up a storm, and we might get rain by tomorrow.  I hear this is the backlash of Harvey.  The scenes of people trekking though muddy, polluted water is heartbreaking.  What happens to the zoos, the animal shelters, the stray dogs and cats?  People have had to desert their homes and leave their pets behind.  Added heartbreak to what must be unbearable.

Nature is a double edged sword.  

Lady Nyo 


Healing with Nature



My solitude shared with

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.


Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017


%d bloggers like this: