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Glenn G. Coats

Without Mary

I wanted to say something about the owl, how I heard him at daybreak when there was frost on the lawn. And how later, along the trail, I saw wings flash above the narrow creek.

I wanted to remind you of the wooden bridge where the dog stalked geckos as they climbed in and around the slats, and wondered if you recalled the spot in the middle where we waited to watch grass carp feed in the shallows.

There is a tree in the rim of woods, its higher branches filled with fruit. Some have fallen to the ground. The fruit is orange-brown and shaped somewhat like a tomato. Mockingbirds and crows dine on droppings. Leave behind black seeds.

I wanted to ask if you knew the name of the fruit, but the afternoon faded, and our conversation had come to an end.

in the trample
of spent persimmons
sweet cinnamon

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About the Author

Glenn G. Coats lives with his wife, Joani, in Carolina Shores, North Carolina. His recent collections are Degrees of Acquaintance (Snapshot Press, 2019), a collection of haibun, and Furrows of Snow (Turtle Light Press, 2019), which won an honorable mention in the Haiku Society of America’s 2020 Merit Book Awards.