Texas Haibun
I dream of poetry in all its forms, rising and flowing and subsiding without end, much like ice shrugging within itself. Last winter a hard freeze split a valve on the downstream side of the cistern. Had it cracked even a few inches up-line there would have been no need to replace the valve.
captive rain recalls
its journey towards the ground
the garden returns
The well terminates at 280 feet. The water is hard, but cool, and tastes of dark limestone and ancient rains.
Even the gnarled live oaks have dropped their leaves. Grass crunches underfoot and smells like dead insects and dried herbs. Mosquitoes have vanished. Only the prickly pears thrive. Their flowers are bright yellow and bloom a few days each year.
sauteed with garlic
nopalitos on my plate
their thorns, forgiven
I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of the glove, and wonder how many ounces of fluid have passed through my body this year, how the rain navigates from clouds through layers of soil and stone, only to return, how a cold beer might feel sliding down my throat.
stoking the fire
winter rain whispers to me
forget tomorrow
* * *
Originally posted in February, 2014, this was my first attempt at a haibun.
O at the Edges 
As lovely now as it was then. (K)
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Thank you, Kerfe!
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I would say that your first haibun was very successful. My favorite line is this one: “The water is hard, but cool, and tastes of dark limestone and ancient rains.”
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What makes that line so beautiful? It tells of something delicious, it reverberates back in space and time, and it is so precise that it has a ring of truthfulness. It is, as so many of Robert’s lines are, exquisite. I love this poem.
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Well said!
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Thanks, Liz and Bob. You both are very generous.
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You’re welcome, Bob.
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That’s great
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Thank you.
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Who could think about tomorrow with a moment so full as this?
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There’s nothing like a fire on a wet winter’s night.
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Perfect. Love this!
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Thanks very much, Barbara.
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