another haibun (May)
What can I tell you about pain? Like snow, it falls and falls, it gets deeper and deeper. Pain makes you heavy and slow, but at the same time sharpens, brittles the nerves. I am a sky like a sheet of tin, and spring is impossible.
It is spring. Last week I dug a new bed, turned manure and peat moss into the compacted clay, planted half-dormant ferns and hostas and bleeding hearts, all gifts from an old garden, from friends. They are rooted already, curling open. The crabapple is thick with blossom and full of cold-dull bees.
Last week I was better. This week I am worse. I will get better again, though I don't believe it. For the garden, I chose old-fashioned things, petunias, yellow jenny, dusty miller. Friends bring me new stones for the border, books on loan. Even now, too sick to cook, I'm eating toast with gifts.
slow bees in new blossom
and the last of the honey
from Spain
_________
Yes, it was a haiku earlier today. But I didn't think it was working without it's associated journal entry -- which I've revised into this haibun. The form intrigues me, though I am new to it.
Ideally you would read this one, and then today's.
2 Comments
It is like snow, isn’t it?
Heavy snow, on cracking ice. & beneath, deep water, bruising cold.
Cold-dull bees. I love that.
The haibun intrigues me, I’ll have to play with that.
I’d like to visit your garden.