Transitory Seasons, a Haibun

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? pastel promises dawn labours rigid skyline slate sky epitaph 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. crocus awakens obdurate rainbow transpires mocking winter's shroud 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 un-shed tears through barren conversations. I cannot hear, and it is a great strain these visitors; 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 anyone’s 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. stark dusk descending shadows jeer eternity peremptory fate