Haibun Monday: Komorebi

I am doing the prompt for Haibun Monday over at dVerse Poets Pub. I have given the Japanese word komorebi to get people started. The word means light filtered through trees, specifically in spring or summer. I am asking them to write about the season-between-the-seasons, specifically summer into fall.  A classic haiku must end the classic haibun form. A classic haiku must have these elements: a season word,a cutting word, and 5-7-5 syllable form. I am not being particular about the number of syllables but I am being picky about the season word being part of the haiku. If there is no season word, you don’t have a haiku. You have a senryu or micropoem.

 

copyright kanzensakura

Komorebi
The cicadas are loud tonight. They clack and thrum, rattle and hum. The night is slightly cool and the dew smells of fallen leaves. Soon the cicadas will burrow down into the earth to sleep over fall and winter. An owl flies overhead, hunting for prey. I hear it in the woods accompanied by a squeal – some creature has become dinner. Small yellow sunflowers peek from the hedge and the butterfly bush has put out its last bloom. The blackberries have all been eaten by birds, squirrels and chipmunks and the bushes are bare except for leaves which are slowly fading to red – here, here, and here. Only the sunflowers have color in this deepened longer night. It is that strange season between seasons – not summer and not yet fall.  The days are getting shorter, the nights are getting longer.

I stood in my woods today. It is my church, my temple, my cathedral. The light filtering through the leaves give it a holy, hushed atmosphere. Komorebi – the Japanese word for light filtered through leaves 木漏れ. Between the world and the word are three small shapes, the signs for ”tree,” ”escape,” and ”sun.” A beautiful word. I look up and a few of the old oaks are beginning to turn their leaves from deep green to pale yellow. They are still holding tight, refusing to fall. The dead leaves underfoot are damp from the recent rain. They have a moist earthy smell rather than the dry spicy smell of autumn. I brush some of the leaves aside to uncover a large block of velvet green moss. Soon, the little flags they grow to reproduce will turn bright red. A small snake slithers under my boot. I watch it disappear into the safe place of ancient fallen trees. The cicadas are quiet today. But soon they will begin their clack and thrum, their rattle and hum. The moon is full this cool night surrounded by a halo of clouds. Autumn is taking the long road traveling to here.

voice of cicadas –
silent now in the stand of
pine trees on the hill

tani bucho 1817

Picking Blackberries

At Poetic Bloomings, we are to write about being a child again in the summer…or – roses!

Picking Blackberries
I hated picking wild blackberries as a child –
The tangled canes all of them lethally armed
with sword sharp thorns –
The merciless sun beating down,
the bees and mosquitos buzzing and
the evil skeeters zooming in for nibbles,
the sly snake and then of course –
the ticks…oh.my.gosh. the ticks.
the small wild berries taking forever to fill up buckets
But…
That sweet winey taste on the tongue,
Biting into purple black morsels –
The juice flowing down the tongue
Staining lips and fingers and then back
at Grandma Hayes’ (who didn’t like me)
to sort through and wash and she would
make this crazy rich biscuit dough, roll it out
scatter the berries over, dot with fresh butter
and sprinkle sugar with a liberal hand.
roll it up tight, cut into slices, place close together
in the baking pan…dot with more butter and add more sugar
yhen some water in the pan.
Into that cruelly hot woodstove oven to bake.
When they came out, they were a miracle.
and the other berries, canning or
making preserves from them….
Oh.my.gosh.
Yesterday I picked blackberries.
Put the buckets into my red hauling wagon
and came home.
Blackberry roll for dessert.
Berries bubbling with sugar getting ready
to be put into preserve jars.
And I still hate picking blackberries.

Wild Summer Love

Blackberry canes bloom.

Delicate white blossoms dance

On dangerous canes.

 

Teasing, tempting me.

Tantalizing  memories

Of exotic wine.

 

Tart sweet dark juices

Explode in my mouth.  Summer

Loves cannot compare.

 

Pluck with care.  Eat with

Passion.  Berry rush quickens

My pulse, sates my senses.