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In This Sizzling Heat: A Haibun


In this sizzling heat we feel as though we’re descending into hell. The river has shrunk into a thin sliver thread. Our grapes are turning brown. They need water. I cannot tell you how eagerly we look for a cloud—one cloud!—to bear even a few drops of rain to the grapes. The neighbor boy flies his kite. It casts a shadow over the dying grapes. But I’ve had enough of watching for clouds that never come. I dig out our passports. “Come on,” I say to my beloved, “we’re going to Norway where it’s cool and it rains. Oh, wait! Americans aren’t welcome in Europe these days. What a clusterf*ck!”


I can’t remember
the last time I quenched my thirst
from a mountain stream.

 

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #274
 
More Writers’ Pantry #28 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

Great Is the Grief of the Grapes


How can the grapes endure such grief?
What forgotten strength contained within
their skins must they summon,
now that the pickers have come with shears
to fill their empty baskets?
They must be aching,
knowing they’ll be tossed in the press
that will crush every drop of life from them.
There’s nothing subtle about destruction.
It doesn’t steal over you
like the fleeting shadow of a wren at twilight,
but lands like a stone on a toe.
Great is the grief of the grapes!

 
  

Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #241
 
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #5 at Poets United

 

Shadow Shot Sunday 2: Grapes

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Grapes ripen at the San Joaquin County Museum, Lodi, California.
 
 
Photo © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
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