Haibun

Lunch with Grandma and Grandpa 

 

Grandpa waits at the kitchen table, while Grandma and I go out to the backyard.  We gather the short pale green leaves of a plant before flower buds form and swell on coarse stems and open into the yellow curse of most gardeners who are unaware of the plant’s  tasty possibilities.

 

dandelion fluff

a warehouse of wishes

let loose in the wind

 

The thin, tubular blades have a slightly sharp fragrance, which becomes stronger as we clip, tug and pull up small white bulbs, leaving fingers dirt smeared and aromatic. Back inside the kitchen, we wash the greens, the muddy sludge swirling down the drain. I shake them, my small hand bobbing vigorously next to Grandma’s large, rough one. We pat dry them on a towel from the old country, hand woven from wild hemp with strands of brown coursing thru the pale fabric.

 

treasured objects—

the next generation

hasn’t a clue

 

Grandma chops the greens and a clove of garlic, places them in a  bowl with some lemon juice and olive oil, sprinkles on salt and pepper and gives them a toss with a wooden spoon. She fills three plates with the greens, adds chunks of hard cheese, slices of salami and crusty bread. She puts the plates on the table, along with glasses, a carafe of water and a bottle of Grandpa’s home-made wine.  He pours water into my glass, adds a little wine, and tells me to “mangia.” 

 

warm breezes 

lazy memories

slip into dreams

Drifting Sands