When she was a young teen she would sit behind the wooden stage propped up near Lake Champlain at Isle le Motte, Vermont. Every Saturday, the owners of the campground would play fifty’s music. It was 1965 and she would sit with her older sister and they would watch their parents dance. Her mother was 5ft 2-3/4” and her father was 5ft 11”. They would sweep the floor with their soft feet floating on that wooden stage. Her mom on her tip toes swooning at the love her life. Her father with his charismatic smile. They danced like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire…only her father was much more handsome.
bodies touching heat of a summer’s night under moonlit sky
rendezvous merriment echoes purity of their love savouring stolen moments ‘til they meet again
Every Wednesday, they met behind the gate like clandestine lovers. She would bring a picnic basket and he, a bottle of Merlot. She would often giggle like a young teen despite her sixty years in age. It was the only time she felt alive and filled with a sense of hope until her return home to care for her senile brother.
wind blows in her hair blossoms fall softly on her cheek from the plum tree
snowflakes on his tongue
makes her quiver
licking white doilies
Although the cold is often avoided, once she gets her warm clothes to weather these frigid temperatures, she finds pleasure walking on fresh fallen snow. Watching the skaters on the new rink the city put up next to her work is sheer delight. Early evening, youngsters are playing hockey and late evening, older couples are skating hand in hand. It brings her back in time, long ago watching her uncle skating on the river under a full moon with is girlfriend. How corny of her to ask if she could tag along but, hey, they accepted, and she thinks the deal breaker for her uncle was that his niece accept this lovely new femme fatal. And boy was she beautiful with her natural blond hair and liquid blue eyes. (sigh) Her heart goes pitter patter remembering those days, long ago when she believed in love and a prince charming.
Skating, tobogganing, snow shoeing up Mont Rougemont, cross-country skiing on Mount Bruno take up so much time that by mid-March it`s a shock that spring is already around the corner. So much fun in a season commonly known for cold weather and shut-ins, well, not this year. Romance trickles over onto another season where relationships blossom with the scent of amour!
stroll among maple trees
feeling each other’s heartbeat
sap trickles promise
We are to write a haibun inspired on the proverb “time flies if you have fun”. And (of course) here are a few restrictions to it. Here they are:
1. start with a haiku and end with a haiku 2. try to place your haibun (and the haiku) in one of the four seasons, you may choose the season yourself 3. your haibun may have a maximum of 250 words, including the haiku.
Consistency breeds comfort. It feels familiar when repeated at the same time over and over, like a mother’s lullaby soothing her baby. After the first snowstorm of the season, nature seems to produce a steady snowfall every other day…sometimes a heavy flurry that often tapers to a slow constant flutter.
She hears a humming in the middle of the night a drone that calms her back to sleep. Bu,t this morning she awakens just before sunrise and watches the snow fall gently. It’s a light snow at first …just enough to veil the outlines of the droning machinery outside her window.
She looks at the trees, fitted with sweaters of pure white and the cedars hide bashfully under stoles of pure fresh powder.
It’s Sunday morning and the sun is rising somewhere in the east far above snow clouds. The sky is a pearly grey, not threatening in the least but rather like a dome hovering over her home. It feels like a shower of white poppies…nature suggesting Sabbath’s day of rest.
She hears another snowplough clearing a shopping centre’s lot across the street; those eager patrons will be checking the last day of Boxing Day week hoping to find another deal, the right size, and right colour… the real deal! If not, they’ll just sit in the mall with a Laura Secord ice cream cone and watch the tired faces of adults being pulled by their offspring s chanting, “Just one more, just one more!” Comfortable armchairs are strategically placed in the centre hallway of the mall where tired fathers and husbands wait patiently and people watch.
A smug smile forms on her lips as she relishes the warmth and calm of her home, not inclined in the least to go out unless she needs something. She sighs, relieved at the thought of not having to brush half a foot of snow off the hood of a car and scrape the windows of melted snow turned to ice and sits back relishing the sound of her furry friend purr.
arresting snow – falls,
manmade humming stills,
settles on a branch
Fallen leaves carpet grounds in ambers, except for those that hold on limbs for dear life. Parks are barren, missing squeals of youths and laughter among families. Park benches are abandoned by lovers, both young and old. Autumn’s melancholy mushrooms over time as winds blow mockingly. Suddenly, temperatures rise to unseasonal heights with warmer days, oh! so short-lived, teasing all things living.
Indian Summer squats
basking under sun kissed skies
Mother Nature lies.
strength of the fearless Titians shamelessly, Atlas fought steadfast and valiant, sternly punished by Zeus shoulders held the heavens still, father of daughters seven frail sisters
~
(Haiku)
seven sisters stars in Taurus’ shoulder metamorphosed
A Pleiades is a 7 line poem created by Craig Tigerman. It is named after the stars in the Pleiades star cluster in the constellation Taurus. Each line has 6 syllables and begins with the same letter – which is the first letter in the (one word) title.
Shadow Poetry tells us that “six of the stars (in Pleiades) are readily visible to the naked eye; depending on visibility conditions between nine and twelve stars can be seen. Modern astronomers note that the cluster contains over 500 stars. The ancients named these stars the seven sisters: Alcyone, Asterope, Celaeno, Electra, Maia, Merope, and Tygeta; nearby are the clearly visible parents, Atlas and Pleione.”
Tournesol dans un Jardin 
