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 

 

Haiku

May morning

she colors her trees

bubble gum pink

Acorn

 

Haibun

    THE SEYCHELLES

 

While my husband attends an international conference I explore the hotel.  Mahe, the largest of the islands, has everything you would expect on a tropical paradise.

 

                a salamander,

                green against the pink wall

                waiting…

 

Seen from our balcony, an expanse of rough lawn and the glinting Indian Ocean.   Day and night, the repetitive sound of the surf and rattling palm fronds.

 

                inside, outside,

                the voices of insects—

                French tourists next door

 

A thatched roof on the hotel lounge and open on three sides. One evening during dinner there is a power outage.

 

                the scented darkness—

                luminescent waves

                crash the reef

 

When the conference is over, we fly to Praslin.  Less populated and with a slower pace.

 

                an empty cove—

                footprints in the sand

                ending at the water

 

Home of the coco de mer, the large double coconut shaped like part of a woman's anatomy thought to be an aphrodisiac.  Also, home of the giant tortoise.

 

                eye to eye

                with a tortoise in the road—

                we drive the verge

 

We take a boat to La Digue, an even smaller and more remote island with dirt roads and no cars.  Wagons pulled by oxen or bicycles, the favored modes of transportation.  Chickens wander the roads.  Lush greenery, the changing blues of the ocean and sky, the myriad colors of flowers, birds in their resplendent feathers and their various songs… all are the riches of the island. 

 

 Perhaps there had been a plan to encourage more tourists and development.  Now… small cottages, once the dream vacation homes of the hopeful, slowly being absorbed back into the greenery. This natural, unspoiled island pleases me more than the developed ones.  The islanders may feel differently, as every day they are reminded of what could have been.

 

                still standing

                just a chimney

                girded with vines

 

Yellow Moon