This poem is in a style called haibun which uses prose to tell a story, with haiku places
within to bring the story deeper. The haiku must stand on it's own as well as fit into the
Waking moments with the strong aroma of coffee percolating throughout the house, I arise.
Drifting through the morning mists, I find my way to the kitchen where the hearth-fire
embers, still warm from the night, glow orange in the pre-dawn emptiness. Where are you?
You, who have left your plate upon my table, sticky with basil and fresh eggs? You, who’s
scent upon my skin I wear as the finest perfume, inhaling deeply into my soul, your
remembrance with every breath I take, where are you?
Night sky melts into daylight
I hurry to open the heavy wooden door, and gaze out as dawn cracks the purple sky and the
smells of spring gust through my doorways, erasing all doubt of what I know. There, fading
in the morning dew, I see your footprints luminescent in crystal light, imprinted upon the
deep green of the forest path. Your tracks are leading away, back from where you came and
where I cannot go, yet. I watch the sun climb the skyline, exposing the stark truth of
daylight, so harsh with it’s radiant glare, that I must turn away. Footprints fading, I
know you are gone, and I return to my cold fire to prepare for another day.
Slate sky epitaph
Morning does not awaken
Shadows chase the light
Many more will come today, with gifts of food and flowers. I have run out of vases, and
places to leave condolences. Excuses for why I do not accept a visit run as dry as unshed
tears through barren conversations. I cannot hear them and it is a great strain to see
them, the daylight hours are too bright, and their apprehension too loud. Forgive me if I
offend, in my knowing of just where I need to be, I did not seek anyones advice anyway.
Looking out past worn curtains I watch for the setting. Crows gather on the budding trees
and raise ruckus in their frenzy to reunite. I know you laugh at me, waiting as I do. I
hear you in those black birds. It’s called a “murder of crows” you’d tell me.
I hear you in my mind, just as I always did, and I feel your presence as a warm breeze on
the small of my back, but it is not the same, and never was, you know this.
Time sprinkled starlight
Darkness holds doorways open