Anything Is Possible: A Haibun

If I could touch the sound of a dove with my fingertips, I would. But my hopes are dashed; the little songster flees as I draw near. The dove calls again. Surely this time! Stealthily I move forward, but a dry leaf crackles underfoot. Hush now, I say to myself, you’re making too much noise; surely she hears you. But, no, there on a branch of the plum is the dove, and there is her song, pouring from her beak like a silver waterfall. Slowly, ever so slowly, I approach, I reach, I touch the sparkling notes. The dove does not stir, though she knows full well what I’m doing. You doubt my story? In the Age of Donald Trump, anything is possible.

An old Buddhist monk,
who never tells me his name,
visits me in dreams.

The Parting

“I know that I will miss you,” he said with a slight shrug.
“But the cat has lost its tail, there’s darkness on the rug,
And cruelty is sport for fools, of which I am one;
Better we should part this day, and let the deed be done.”
 
“I will not discourage you,” she said without a sigh.
“You’ve been just short of horrible in all the years gone by.
You thought that I was fragile, you thought I was a toad,
But I withstood your onslaughts—now go, and hit the road!”

 
Poem © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #194