39

 

the last time you flew

you came home with pockets full of denmark. silver bracelets and bright feather earrings that tickle your neck. strange white rocks that remind you of the beach—how the air was warm but the water was way too cold. every time you call me I hold my breath. belize. madagascar. barcelona. I open the door on this ohio backyard. it rained last night; now everything smells like turning. fall is finally here. somewhere a hawk screams and my little dog wants back inside. when I hear the phone ring, I wait—just a minute. I know where you’re going this time.

 

yellow leaves moon
I climb the mountain but
you’ve already gone

 

 

cattails (January 2014) | haibun

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