Marjorie A. Buettner...

Woodsmoke

What is this longing for the past: the fleeting image of your face across mine, the distant sound of your voice in my ear, the hour before dawn that we shared secrets. I try to talk with you when I am alone but the wind carries my words to cold, distant stars the way it carries the scent of blossoms just opening on a deep, spring night.

New Year's Eve-- the way you hummed to yourself in the kitchen

There is a memory that comes in the blood, a memory of bone and tissue and a memory of scent. There is a memory of movement and dance found in the muscle, a memory of sound and tone found in the voice. All of it you have bequeathed to me as I make my way through this world without you. All of it you have donated as part and parcel of my inheritance, priceless and rare beyond measure. I cannot give it away, I cannot lose it, for it has found me and it belongs to me and I have found myself--strangely--through it, this constant free-flowing flood of memory which sustains...

first day of the year-- sending out for garden seeds in the mail

WHCHaibun 2010-01-01