Haibun # 6 (cancer, again)

February 2015, my sister, at 27, passed away from cancer. December 2019 my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The haiku below is a memory of mine from my first day of school. I remember crying as my mother left me to the care of the teacher, and I remember looking at her through the window while she left me there and wondering why she left me, and where she is going without me. Fitting for this situation. Only now I’m much lonelier than before. Only now it’s darker and colder around me. The warmth and care of the people I loved most is gone. And so I’m left with…

First day of school…
through the window glass
my mother looking at me

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Haibun # 5

As I sip my morning tea, the autumn sun outside, like a warm, tender wave falls over the trees in the garden. Beside me, on the desk, a book calls to be read, as though it were the tender eyes of a woman I love, inviting me to delve into them. My heart is filled with a strange stillness and calm as leaves falls all around.

Autumn morning…
in all beginnings is sown
the seed of their end

Haibun # 4

Roads are so fascinating because far off, in the distance, they always curve into some unknown, inviting and frightening, tantalizing our sense of adventure. They open us to the moment and fill us with wonder, swelling our hearts with endless possibilities.

Again and again
what I lost came back to me…
a traveler on the road

Douma, Lebanon, May 27, 2018

Haibun # 3

A crow flies below the crescent moon at twilight as the first star appears in the darkening sky. The sound of running water from a nearby stream mixes with the voices of the dying day. Something from the deep is sounding, but for who?—and what does it all mean?

With a thread of fragrance
I tie my poem
to the sail of the moon

Avec un fil de parfum
j’attache mon poème
au voile de la lune

Haibun # 2

The moment I open up to them they leave…

On the wind
the scent of a flower
trailing towards the dawn

Haibun # 1

C’est quoi, le poème ?—un ermitage au cœur de la montagne, au cœur du désert, où la lumière de la lune et le silence de l’aube viennent tisser des mots, viennent tisser, avec de la poésie, le souffle d’une chandelle.

Solitude hivernal…
la chandelle peint
les paupières de la nuit