Doug Roy, Man on Mountain, Cut Paper
Haibun Turning Winter
Cold breeze again this afternoon. March spreads her arms to gather all the seasons into a single day. Bones may cool but soil warms enough to coax forth one pale bud between a fist of leaves now furling. Clasped hands offer white flame. Why, flower blessing, do you imagine this empty world would wish to welcome you? Why even go on living in this cold realm? Seasons’ secret contemplations. Leaves can’t hold the blossom back.
open just enough
to see the sun
bloodroot
He outpaces her, his blue walker, her red walker. March swells up sweater warm, cardinal song neither one can any longer hear. Cherry blossoms pink snow on cloaked shoulders. Their eldest son hovers, steadies, calculates. Who will fall first? Which outlive the other? Blue walker tires, slows. Red is still focused on momentum. She slides one foot and then the next, but when her son remarks about the neighbors’ garden, she stops and turns.
just close enough
to breathe their honey
blue hyacinths
Like orange sherbet she exclaims as he squeezes another dab of acrylic onto her paper plate palette. Pink, robin’s egg blue, lime green – she is painting spring flowers and Easter eggs. The brush knows her hand knows the brush, ninety-six years the artist. He gathers into his heart all that brought them here, all the flowers she has taught him. And all that she has lost. This morning as they drove she could not name her favorite, lilac-purple trees that line the roadway.
just one more spring
raspberry sherbet redbud
never forget
__________
Bill Griffin