Kat Lehmann
Unraveling
The nurses say the days have counted themselves. Mother quietly asks for yarn so she can finish the crocheted blanket she began thirty years earlier. Four-ply. Acrylic. Rust-colored. We bring it to her, and, a couple weeks later, she finishes the blanket.
a wish
She asks for more yarn so she can crochet something for me. It will be round, a gray field filled with blue and purple flowers and green leaves, she says. I repeat the image in my mind. For me. I slip away into tears.
that never came true
I realize for the first time what I missed by not being a child. It’s easier to never see a color than to glimpse that color and lose it.
comet tail
About the Author
Kat Lehmann is a founding co-editor of Whiptail: Journal of the Single-Line Poem, an associate editor at Sonic Boom, and the author of three books of poetry. She serves on the panel for The Haiku Foundation’s Touchstone Distinguished Book Awards. Kat lives on the edge of a Connecticut forest, where she is captivated by the grandiose within the minute. katlehmann.weebly.com.
Kat, another beautiful haibun which touches something very deep within as did the one you wrote with waves. I really like the braided haibun form.
Thanks for your comment, Anette. I’ve been writing a bit deeper into these experiences. Glad it found a safe landing and, yes, I think the braided haibun form can be really effective.
Oh Kat, so moving. I like your style in it, too.
Thank you for your comment, Pris! This took years to write, as these things often do!
So poignant, beginning with the title. The insight on colour and the braided form itself are masterful!
Thanks for your thoughtful reading of it, Dorothy! I’m so glad it connected.