A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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December 2007, vol 3 no 4

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Hortensia Anderson


Leaving Pine Lane

We had been packing since dawn. I had said my farewells to the rhododenron around the screened porch, with ballet slipper tinted petals that felt like tissue; to the ancient apple tree by the patio. It had never bloomed until the year we bought the house and I had caressed it and confided in it and loved it until it produced masses of blossoms and tiny sweet-tart apples.

late spring—
the sun shimmers on the lake
through green leaves

But I hated the house without reason. I hated it the way I loved the grass, blade by blade - senselessly and passionately. We were finished with the packing up of the remains of our lives and of our ancestors. Dusk was beginning to fall deeply, goldenly.The piano was by the high window overlooking the lake. I touched the keys, lightly at first. Then I sat down.

Chopin nocturne—
the lower octaves warm
from the sun