I step out onto the new, covered porch of the family summer home. I can hear the sounds of the waves of Cobequid Bay rolling in onto the beach. I settle into the embrace of the wicker love seat that waits for me, and I close my eyes.
Though I cannot see, I can hear the sounds of nature all around me, and I know that it is the same as when I was a child. The building has moved, the layout has changed, but the sounds of home are still the sounds of home.
This is home, where the sun sets in the west over the water, where morning dew creates spiderweb patterns in the grass of the fields, where wild blueberries grow, where the world’s highest tides ebb and flow, where sun bakes the sandbar at low tide than comes in to create bath-warm seawater to swim in.
These are the fields I ran in as a child, picking wild violets to bring and put in jelly jars. Eating the tiny strawberries that grew without the aid of man, more perfect than those at the store. These are my home fields. These are the fields I know, as magical as those beyond.
Rain falling on the new roof
meets the sound of waves
The Wind in the trees
sings a welcome back home
birds’ wings fluttering.
Changed walls still remain
the walls of my own true home.
nature’s song soothes me.
(A quick explination. A haibun is a Japanese form of combined prose and haiku. The prose is meant to mirror the same sparse word choice and nature themes as traditional haiku, and the haiku is meant to add to the narrative, rather than rephrase it outright. Think of how the song in a musical adds to the story rather than just mirroring the plot.)
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2 thoughts on “The Fields of Home, a Haibun”
Love this Jenn!
Fond remembrance for you and lovely form of writing