The prompt last Wednesday is a lovely narrative of spring and why our host, Chèvrefeuille loves this season. I, too, love this time year, filled with fresh new beginnings. The promise of life, rebirth, flowers blossoming, birds nestling and nature finally coming alive after a long peaceful rest.
Our host wrote this haibun on the first day of spring. There is still snow on the ground here in Québec, end of March with a few risks of snow storms. What gives one hope is seeing those tulip bulbs that were planted in the fall, burgeoning in March and April. Well, unless of course a rabbit or squirrel munched on the bulbs during the winter. One must plant double the amount to make sure a floral harvest. My favourites are red tulips.
one tulip stretches budding red peaks through white quilts first day of spring
first day of spring sleeping beauty awakens blushing promise
Ils avaient voyagé pendant deux jours et une nuit; la montée devenait de plus en plus téméraire. Ils se sont arrêtés dans les petits villages situés au long du chemin pour se reposer. En causant avec les villageois ils leurs demandaient conseils sur leur excursion jusqu’à l’Himalaya.
Un vieil homme était assis, les jambes croisées dans un petit cachot derrière le loge où ils ont été pour la nuit; il semblait en transe, endormi et rêvait peut-être. Les voyageurs ont été émus par le sourire éthéré sur les lèvres du vieillard.
l’intermède de l’ombre
quasi portée de la main
la danse des étoiles
They had traveled for two days and one night, always climbing. They stopped in small villages along the way to rest a bit, talk with villagers and ask them advice on their journey up the Himalayas. An elderly man sat crossed legged in his tiny hut behind the cabin where they were lodged for the night. He seemed in a trance, sleeping and dreaming perhaps. The travelers were touched by the old man’s faint smile on his lips.
twilight’s first act,
almost close enough to touch
dancing stars
Walking home last night she sees grey swirls elevated near the curb as she crosses the street. The first frozen puddle she has noticed in the city, autumn’s last month flirting with winter. She knows the days are numbered now. Leading towards the end of this season sometimes feels like walking towards a grave.
fallen to their death leaves spread season’s quilt tucking in the earth
Although logic knows the earth is not dead but asleep…napping for a spell, until spring, the dark of day lacking sunshine makes us feel this way on this cold day of November. Not only does nature seem somnolent but the sun as well, turning in so early.
sun bids farewell yet, it’s only teatime! autumn’s new soirée
No longer can one dine in the evening whilst they admire art displays in the sky. (sigh!) The artist too, has turned in earlier, skipping dinner and off to bed.
painting moods in blues in the darkest hour cleansing of new dawn
One can sometimes hear In the darkest hour awe celestial notes message from the heavens, still, she is not clear…
Nature has its mysteries, that she does not know; makes it all the more appealing, savouring the unknown.
whispers in her ear playing sanguine notes lighting up her soul
I think I may have gotten carried away here with poetic prose and turned a few sentences into haiku and tanka. I am still categorizing this as a haibun.
Sitting at the picnic table near the chip wagon, she sprinkled vinegar and salt on her fries. Taking that first bite of her fry was delightful. Another bite and she winced at the slight burning sensation on her lip. Salt can do that but no matter how unhealthy they say it is, she could not go without salt on French fries.
She remembered when she was a child playing kick the can with friends in the summer. Her mom would call her in when it got dark and she was all sweaty. She loved the taste of salt on her arm.
chaleur torride sueur luisante goût d’été
sweltering heat sweat glistens taste of summer
They met on the beach. It felt so natural. They walked hand in hand as the sun was slowly dipping in the horizon. The tide was out. How delicious to feel the cool sand between their toes as they walked what seemed, forever.
taste of sunset, waves roll in softly, salt on her lips
She brushes her hair with her brush, the one with the ivory handle, Papa brought her on his last trip. Staring into the mirror she makes faces like she did when she was a child. How she loved playing this game with Papa. They would take turns making faces and the other had to guess who or what they were imitating. For her it was usually insects or birds and that was where she got her nickname. Papa always called her, “Ma petite Luciole, you are the light of my life.”
Five years have passed since then but she wonders if l’avarice has taken over her Papa, she has started to call monsieur l’étourneau. He says he is still looking for that special treasure and when he finds it, he will return for good. She looks out at the birdfeeder near her bedroom window. She huffs out of frustration. That starling is stealing all the seeds again…such a greedy little thing it can be!
She misses her Papa and especially since her Maman died in childbirth three years ago. She still has a difficult time to be happy around la petite Colibri. They nicknamed her after hearing her moan in her bed at night putting herself to sleep. Pauvre petite Colibri, she thought. She had the same emerald green eyes of Maman. How she craved for the long ago laughter of her Papa.
They had all they needed, she reasoned. Her father had inherited le Manoir des Chèvrefeuilles as well as their maison de campagne in Marseilles when maman passed and yet…
She would write to him later this afternoon, she thought, gazing at her silver pheasant feather quill pen. She would ask Colibri to paint a huge soleil to bring Papa back home soon. She sighs and drapes the silk lavender shawl over her bare shoulders and runs down for le petit dejeuner sur la terasse with her Grandmaman and sister.
Have you ever noticed when you are driving in a town or city and listening to music in the car, people walking by seem to be walking to the beat? Sometimes the music is fast paced and you can’t help but notice the hips sway, the arms doing their one-two,one-two movement. Perhaps you have changed channel a few times to see who moves best or the most to the rhythm. Maybe you are with a friend and he or she points some people out…heck, even dogs are walking to the beat!
Then you may be strolling through a park with your ear-buds, listening to your tunes and you cannot help but move to the movement in time with the music floating in your ears. If it is upbeat, and you are walking on a city sidewalk, that could actually be a risk to the safety to you and others. Better tone the music down to something more mellow and mosey along ready to stop, walk around or step off the sidewalk at times. Yes, yes, you have met those friends who walk three and four in a row refusing to break their group of four.
Even if you do not have music to carry you when you go for a walk, you can certainly hear something that will have a beat that can carry you at a certain tempo. The beeping at the red light for visually impaired to cross has a nice honk to it and even when it stops, it still echoes for a few blocks as you walk to that beat. The rattle of a three wheeler down the street, the repetitive clang of a loose hub cap or the click click of those nice pumps across the street. I prefer the steady thump of my favourite boots when I’m in a good mood.
The best of all of course, is walking either just after dawn or before dusk, the conference of fowls who play, chatter, talk about their day, mother robin singing her bedtime stories to her nestling. It is a cacophony of chirps of various intonations and if you close your eyes you can imagine you are in the woods somewhere alone just you and nature. Your heart beats quicker at first until the tones simmer down and you watch the sun set…
Many years ago they were expecting their first child. They had impatiently waited seven years but felt blessed to have finally been given this chance. Her husband was out playing a hockey game with his buddies. She had a visitor with her all evening so she wouldn’t be alone since November 6th was the due date. The television was on low and they were chatting like they always did since they were twelve years old.
She was sitting in the lazy boy since it was the only chair that was comfortable for her pudgy size. She stopped counting the weight she had gained after thirty-seven pounds. Her back was sore so she slipped a small pillow in the small (ha that was funny) of her back. Once in a while she kept looking at her watch. Her friend did not have children and asked her why she was checking her watch so often.
“The contractions are every fifteen minutes, just checking to see if that is going to change…much. It doesn’t seem to hurt too much.”
They were giggling out of their anticipation for the arrival of the baby. She had told the technician when she had the ultrasound not to tell her the sex of the baby. She preferred a surprise hoping it might motivate her if the labour got too painful at the end.
Her friend left at eleven, and her husband arrived a few minutes later. He went straight to bed since he had to get up early for work the next morning. She had been off work for two weeks now. She went to bed shortly after and had not told him about her contractions in case they were false labour. Her grandmother had always told her if the pain wakes you up, then they are real.
She got to sleep fairly quickly but was awakened every ten to twelve minute all night long. She didn’t want to wake her husband in case she was to be in labour many hours at the hospital and she wanted to stay in the comfort of her home as long as possible. How she wished her grandmother could be with her. But GrandMaman had just turned 78 and probably would not be able to go through a whole night with her at the hospital. She would still wait. By 7 am, she phoned her friend who had two children to ask her questions and see if it was too soon to leave. Contractions were about 7 minutes apart and getting very painful. Her friend told her calmly, it was time to go to hospital.
She made a cup a tea and toast and woke up her husband telling him, “C’est le temps d’aller à l’hôpital.” They both felt a bit awkward and nervous. He was not aware of her intense contractions since he had slept all night through that so he seemed ill prepared for her whimpering and breathing in the car. On the drive to the hospital when she got a contraction she would ask him to drive a bit slower on the twisting road by the river. At each contraction he would jokingly sing, “I can’t get no contraction!” They would laugh nervously trying to make light of the most important day of both their lives…their first child would be here soon.
At the hospital, he must not have realized how much in pain she was, he parked the car in the visitors’ parking lot and they walked laboriously to the entrance. They had to stop twice so she could catch her breath during the painful contractions…he laughing…a bit giddy like a kid not sure what he was supposed to do would continue singing Mik Jagger’s song alterered to “his satisfaction”!
Four hours docteur Ronaldo Morriconni almost didn’t make it on time and their son was born six minutes after noon, softly crying and peeing on the doctor. Served him right for being late but the doctor just chuckled; he loved babies. Daddy almost fainted at the most crucial moment and the nurse just shouted to him to sit down because they had more kind of busy at the moment.
They checked to see if baby was fine and breathing okay and then laid him on her belly while the doctor finished up what he had to do. It was a nice distraction. Baby seemed to recognize her voice and she held him to her breast as he seemed to know already what to do…a real natural!
That was thirty seven years ago. After seven years of marriage, the seventh grandchild was born on the 7th of November and christened on the 7th of January, his father’s birthday.
November seventh
blessed with a healthy son Olivier
Sitting in her living room she gazes out the window at the leaves. This was a bush planted a few years ago that kept climbing to the heavens. Her landlady asked her last fall, if she wished to have it trimmed to get a clearer glimpse through her window. “Oh, no!! please let it reach the roof and beyond if possible. I love the privacy it offers me so I can keep my drapes drawn and have my cloistered view of life outside my little world.”
Her landlady understood being a woman and living alone on the main floor, a busy street, she might benefit with this sweet discretion nature could provide.
The leaves were giggling and dancing like teenagers at a sleepover. Most of the grownups were fast asleep waiting for the next season but not this rebellious bush. She loved to see the life still withstanding the wind and the rain.
free flutter fly
giggling at the wind
children make believe
This morning, the rains and wind had stripped many trees out front. Her favourite tree in front of her patio window, next to her desk where she spent hours wandering in the forest of her mind, was no longer waving with those yellow leaves of last week. Now the branches, skinny and some thick and strong, crooked and curved were waving to her, inviting her to this new part of the season.
“Look at me sway back and forth!! I am still alive just wearing a new suit. I am mature and wise and will be here with you to lean on even in the dead of winter. So don’t cry over spilt leaves. Tomorrow will bring back strong, fragrant and green robes. You will see. Until then, just lean on me, my trunk can weather almost anything and certainly can hold you for the rest of this season and winter too.”
(c) Clr ’15
how valiant am I!
timberland’s warden – always,
lean on me
She smiled at this lovely invitation. It felt like a love letter from a strong, steady lover who may not show his colours but is always there if and when she needs to lean on him. Chuckling to herself aloud, her cat twitches an ear and lazily lifts her head one short moment and returns to her feline haven.
Now did she imagine all of this or did she actually hear the tree speak to her? She slips back into her private woodland hearing sylvan whisper des mots d’amour.
each leaf shows off
clinging for dear life
mocking at the tree
Memories of long ago so vivid, she can taste it. A young girl walks to school in the bitter cold. Crunch crunch, echo from her tiny feet. White smoke comes out her mouth like magic and dewdrops trickle from her eyes clouding her vision.
florets smaller than springtime buds sit on eyelashes
Tournesol dans un Jardin 