An afternoon of knitting with a friend, littered with purls and butterflies, as full of chuckles as a a rivulet finding its way through a clutter of rocks
High Summer Haiku
Sun-fired blue porcelain sky,
hissing of the grass, as the wind goes chuffing past
The sun is still drowsing in bed while the new day, a fuzzy shawl of low grey clouds thrown on over its nightgown, pauses on the threshold of Autumn. I’m already up and puttering in the kitchen, inadvertently eavesdropping on a mourning dove having a quiet little boohoo on the roof behind the range hood vent pipe . . .
Today Aram Khachaturian’s Masquerade Waltz has ear-wormed its insinuating coils into my head and refuses to worm out, and my mind is a swirling mass of blue and purple ballgowns hoar-frosted with diamonds that glitter in the candlelight.
If I spoke with my hands and not my mouth, if my words were framed with graceful gestures and the eloquence of agile fingers, how would I whisper secrets in the shushing darkness? When it is eyes, not speechless ears, that hang on every word, would flirtation be a tango for two hands, and anger jazz and swash like Martha Graham? Would girl talk swirl and flutter through the fingers like a restless flock of sparrows? Could I soliloquize without a mirror?
No mystical phrase to murmur mindlessly until it becomes a series of meaningless sounds. No beads to occupy the fingers with the counting out of repetitions until a mystical number is reached, with nothing to show for it all but the passage of time.
A ball of yarn in a bowl, blue mist through clear glass. The fingers move, the thread flows from the bowl, winds snakelike through the hand, is caught up in the needles’ dance, and something useful takes shape.
In the mind’s still pond,
the silver thoughts swim slowly.
The heron chooses.
Be ever vigilant. Happiness is a ninja that can strike at any moment.
The cobalt blue glass from which I drink the sweet golden cold of apple juice, thirst quenching for both eye and tongue.