Rich Youmans

Where the Sky Is a New Color Every Morning

Father's Day
as if it could help
my lifeline 
on yours

Looking out the window behind your bed, I see it high in the lavender sky, and that moment comes back: us sitting on the porch steps, sipping beers, watching the sun set behind the oaks bordering our dirt yard. You raised your bottle toward a bright point above the tallest tree: “Is that a planet?” I shook my head. “No, it’s flickering. It must be a star.” That was it for a while. We just sat quietly, twilight seeping into the dirt and our shadows inching out behind us, yours so much thinner even then. Finally, when each of us had become mostly night, you said, “I think it’s a planet,” more to yourself than to me. I stared out at that bright dot, now joined by others. “A planet,” you repeated, your voice stronger, “where the sun blooms like a flower, one petal at a time, and the sky is a new color every morning, and the rain is a song that everyone hears a little differently, but is always beautiful.” I smiled. You always made up these strange worlds when you put me to bed as a kid, hoping to keep my dreams from turning dark. When you turned out the light, you’d hum a small tune, your way of saying good night. I tighten my grip on your hand and look out the window, at the sky changing color. Each breath you take rattles like rain. Softly, I begin to hum.

evening star
just enough
for a wish

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About the Author

Rich Youmans lives on Cape Cod with his wife, Alice. He published his first haibun in 1994 and, decades later, is still at it. His books include All the Windows Lit (Snapshot Press, 2017) and Head-On (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2018). He is also the co-author, with Roberta Beary and Lew Watts, of Haibun: A Writer’s Guide (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2023).

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