weathered pastels

Kristjaan at Carpe Diem Haiku Kai inspires “springtime haibun” challenge…

Two years ago we invited our five grandchildren and their parents for Easter dinner after Resurrection Sunday worship. We already enjoyed warmer spring temperatures and tulip bulbs sprouted in the garden. A delicious meal was planned featuring honeyed ham with favorite side dishes. The mothers laid out their children’s best clothes with frills and bowties in anticipation of the next day’s celebration.

During the night, it snowed a wet blanket on the greening lawn and dirt farmyard. Plans for our first annual Easter egg hunt had to modified over the protests of the children, who were soothed by the fruity taste of jellybeans. The rabbit tracks across the waiting garden disappeared with the melting snow. New life persists and now nine grandkids are budding on the branches of our family tree.

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photo by lynn

 

wet snow on easter

spring’s resurrection muddied

hide the eggs indoors

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Later the same year, our weathered, fifty-year-old kitchen cupboards were re-done (resurrected) in “espresso” with distressed brass hardware  🙂

new life on the farm

tulips point skyward
pregnant buds open up life
colorful prayers

_______

speckled easter eggs
killdeer cry out distraction
spring clutch nests on ground

_______

raindrops kiss clover
walk barefoot across wet lawn
holding hands with spring

_______

straw bedding in barn
cows moo news of fresh spring calves
maternity ward

_______

mews, purrs, stretches paw
mama nurses new kittens
fur balls’ eyes closed tight

_______

blossoms pop purple
rhododendron awakens
spring resurrection

 

winged departure

Our youngest son graduates from his homeschool studies in May.

 

robins weave their nest

blue-egged hatchlings cheep hunger

parents hunt for grubs

 

vital, patient flight lessons

fledglings leave safety of home

 
 

morning after gale

(Verse written as American sentences; each a 17-syllable rant)

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Puzzled robin perches on downed tree branch

next to nest of broken eggs.

Selfish force of storm has ripped potential life joy

from its safe sanctum.

Ravaged grove stands in stark silence except

for coo~coos of mourning doves.

 

apology

 

i’m sorry,

for you

but have

no regrets;

it’s true—

instead of

collecting

the eggs,

i was out

gathering

poems and

now there

are no

pancakes

for your

breakfast.