shimo no koe

Haibun is a Japanese form of prose and poetry (haiku) together.  I’m joining Victoria with dVerse Poets writing haibun about “first frost’s voice” (shimo no koe).


 

We actively anticipate the first frost of fall, working as a team ahead of the weather’s uncertain clock. The last tomatoes, some green ones, must be claimed off the vines and colorful peppers plucked from dying garden. This home-grown produce is chopped with harvested onions into tantalizing picante sauce to be admired in pint jars on shelf before smeared on tortilla chips.

Our prodigious pair of apple trees generously offer basketfuls of blushing fruit to family and friends willing to pick. The dropped or blemished fruit are treats rolled under fence to eager cows. Contentment wafts on spiced fragrance of apple-pie-in-a-jar syrup that simmers in large pot on basement stove. Steam from water bath canner spreads warm humidity indoors.

Fall rain dampens farmers’ spirits, swells soybeans in their pods, and muddies fields. “A killing frost is what we need” for corn stalks to die so matured ears plump with kernels can be harvested. The farmer checks weather forecast every night. At last, it steals in with the dawn, silently smothering the grass and finishing off the last droopy flowers.

 

icing on orchard

may ruin or ripen crops

winter’s first whisper

 

IMG_1623

photo by lynn

 

 

daikan (great cold) tanka

IMG_9052

photo by lynn__

 

lonely weathervane

midwestern prairie windchill

frosty windowpane

 

 

old bones ache in mid-winter

even crows disappear

 

danger of frost

photo by lynn__

photo by lynn__

 
 
hair would shine gray but

sons don’t wish me to look old

frost comes with autumn
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

(link to CDHK “if taken in my hand”)

silver icing

 

Jeweled november morning

presents her fragile gifts

wrapped in brittle air

 

crisp cookie cut-outs of fallen

gingerbread leaves, sprinkled

with sparkling sugar crystals

 

frosty gems encrust cold

rim of now abandoned birdbath,

an over-sized salted goblet

 

dead lawn glitters a thousand

clear white diamonds, reflecting

frigid rays of sharp sunlight

 

piercing tender ears of chilled clouds.

 

_________

 

Mixing metaphors here…like a november morning mixes beauty and severity.