Haibun

THE TASTE OF HONEY

 

You expect to find that your childhood home is older.  You also find it smaller.  Duller.  The neighborhood is confined, insulated, a world unto itself.  You wouldn’t fit in even if it were ship-shape and clean of graffiti and rusting cars.  Even if there were neat plantings in front of each house and window boxes with flowers and children playing hop-scotch or roller skating on the sidewalks.  Even if the older folks sat on their front porches on a summer night and gossiped. You know it would not be your home anymore.

                                            the taste of honey

                                            dissolving

                                            into nothing

 

                                                                           

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