Sunday Haibun

sun tickles blue sky

sitting on a rusty truck

we drink morning in

 

On this stretch of unexplored brunch paradise, diners mill about, in anticipation of biscuits and mimosas. Drinks are served in mason jars, large enough for three long sips. Just off the road, we seek comfort in shade provided by whispering trees that bend in farm air.

 

hold onto minutes

they fall, like a floating dream

before eyes open

 

Tomorrow always comes. The fated scent spills under doorways, fills our house with longing. I tell it to creep somewhere else, so that all I feel is the space inside.

 

sandpaper tongue cleans

stripes in a furried frenzy

beware tiger bite

 

Stalk the windowsill to gaze down at backyard buzz. Breakfast sends you hopping down the hall, and convinces us you are bunny-born. At night, when a tiny screen offers the only light into a room that begs for sleep, you place your paw on my hand.

 

  silver moon sliver

            winks at my home

      a nest for

 laughing white owls

 

Cuckoo—haunt of night drift, a place where flickers of candy light sleep on sugared lids. Lulled by piano, or the key to a secret garden where pages wait to be written.

Carly PerkinsComment