September Haibun

Hardenbergia on Mt Taylor

Before my walk, I read a poem about war. A child huddles in the ribcage of a dead soldier. I smell the chaos, I feel the drift of smoke and cold. But I could leave. Could shake my head and leave to walk up Mt Taylor.

It’s a brown-green hill streaked with paths, streaked with rain, streaked with the gentle bumping of kangaroos and the beginnings of bush flowers. This hill never meets the sky the same way: rustling up to it, jutting into it, pushing nosily toward it, burying its face in it, shrinking away from it. And the sky stays there, all the same, pulling faces with its clouds.

And on spring mornings when the mist creates a false bottom to the valley and the blue sky sits haughty above… on those mornings this brown hill is my friend; waits patiently for me with its lunchbox of views and is quiet while I sit, pressing my own nose into the breeze. We wake up together, the hill and I, quiet as flower buds, solemn as preachers, holding the world in the cup of our eyes and breathing. Yes, breathing. That is my luxury.

it starts with a figuring of purple
petals like fortune cookies
a way out of khaki

8 thoughts on “September Haibun

  1. As always Jo, you put us right there with the beautiful pictures you paint and you’re wonderful; everyday descriptions!! πŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ‘β€οΈβ€οΈ Powerful contrast between war and nature!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is gorgeous, despite the haunting beginning. The way you describe all the ways the hill never quite meets the sky! Love that. The phrase “lunchbox of views” is perfect! And the luxury of breathing, the comfort of it when you come back to yourself, or as I saw it, when someone manages to control their anxiety, it’s the breathing that does it. As well-rounded as a haibun should be πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

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