Blown Winter Grass II
(i have known the cold — a Haibun collaboration with “Blown Winter Grass”, by Patrick Faller)
Hungry stomachs like tight hands, growling, bones cracking. I never felt I measured up as a man when I was younger. I don’t measure up now. Money like water through my fingers. Confidence like flowers broken by the fall’s first cold snap. Or, take the house and its scuzzy blue siding, its dandelion weeds like Gothic scepters, its grasses like husks of callus trimmed from giant heels.
early winter here
the flowers caught unawares
summerʻs dreams betrayed
My dog walks best in his black nylon rope harness, walks proudest: head high, at a high canter. Nothing like a bowl of seasoned water after. Nothing in his stomach makes his stomach tighten and squeak. The nothing in my hands makes him turn, trot away. In the living room I find him. There, he’s whole.
My wife believes him,
here, only water
poor fare from these humble hands
salted with my tears
makes a place for him beside her on the couch. His limbs at full stretch flood over half its length. He paws at the air while dreaming. His rippling growl, his closed-mouthed yipping, act on my heart like a clamp acts on a table edge. Or a walnut. Holds it together, then breaks it. I grow sick with power. His head fits my hands. His ribcage swells beneath my palm. I keep it there for several minutes while he and my wife sleep, waiting for my fear to subside.
winter lays its coat
seeds, worms — all have gone to ground;
a threadbare blanket
I can mount the French cleat and hang the head board above our bed. I can replace a feathered fan belt, cloudy engine oil. I can break apart the cardboard boxes and cases the baby’s things came in. I can punch in each box’s sides to snap the packing tape. I do so.
secrets within ice
shimmering, a single drop
here, first buds of plum
This haibun is part of the Hands in Haibun collaboration. The prose was written by Patrick Faller. Visit the original post at:
“Blown Winter Grass”
