February is a month of memories: we walk in brown but we remember green.
Every February I look forward to spring –and yet in doing so I am looking over my shoulder into the past. I know that the fragile grass will soon be sweet and green and tall, and yet this anticipation is framed in memory.
As I walk over the spongy, newly uncovered earth, I see tender clumps of grass barely taller than moss. The grass reminds me of warm summer evenings. It reminds me of wet feet and of insects rising in the night.
needle-sharp fighter /
rises amid the fireflies – /
wolf amid the sheep //
Between the grasses the earth is littered with winter debris. It makes for difficult walking; there is no even rhythm to be had. Sometimes I explode with sound; sometimes I am as surefooted and silent as a wolf.
soft lichens and bark /
muffle travelers’ footsteps /
between crackling leaves //
Wherever people walk, people leave debris. Gum wrappers and ponytail holders. Coins and ink pens. All of these items fall into the snow, and the snow likes to take captives.
Until February.
A very faint gleam peeks from under the leaves and bark. Four copper buckles – lost in autumn – reappear at my feet. I pull them out of the earth and enjoy the scent of damp soil, decaying leaves, and metal. Their copper links are frozen with corrosion.
Who wore this belt around her waist? Was she walking, deep in thought? Was she taking photographs? Was she meeting a lover beneath the trees?
Copper and earth have memories too.
faint copper glimmer – /
mossy green and scaly brown /
crumble into dust //
This post is written for the Weekly Ligo Haibun Challenge. The images on this page were provided for the challenge.
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Tagged: copper, February, haibun, melting snow, memory, spring, Weekly Līgo Haībun Challenge, winter
