the lavender here in this desert-like town is long and hard and spiny. its smell is harsher here, more pungent. and with the heat and the dry air comes a rising moon that lifts itself pure over the hills. pure, white, into the azure it emerges – and azure, really, that’s the only word for it. blue? many things are blue. jeans, cars, the background on a computer for sale at walmart. this sky, though, up here over the hills that cinch the long, narrow, deep lake, this sky is azure. tinged with a bit of violet and yellow at the fringes in the west, where we remember the sun has gone. the car lights up and down the street compete with the moon, seem to win for a moment, but they move in and out, leaving no trace.
the moon rises.
when humans are gone
insects with names yet unknown
will still sing your song.
today i’m serving up a haibun. it can be seen as a form of lyric prose – so that counts as poetry, doesn’t it?
“because it’s the death of your ego”, he says, and his voice resonates across the dining room, bounces off the long table, right across the bread that’s slowly getting stale, slinks around a glass of wine. “do you want to borrow the book?” another voice, a few notes higher, the voice of a man as well, and then all of a sudden the little throng of people disburses. the focus of attention a little boy now, clink clink clonk playing lego. “no clean up!” more woman voices now, “clean up, kiddo!” and a young voice, sniffling in this allergy season.
easter brunch is long over but crumbs, you can still see them everywhere. that special kind of mess that overlays a busily scrubbed and cleaned house. it won’t take long to vacuum. the dishes in the kitchen, third round now, are neatly stacked. voices are still spiking up everywhere, “he seems like quite the character actor”, “we could play cash flow next weekend,” like a loosely grouped stand of pine tree in the plains. “have you ever thought of – ?” “uh huh, uh huh.” laughter in different cadences, at different pitches, different lengths.
in a black bowl on the shelf.
a toothpick pokes out.