__Silly perhaps, but one often wonders to where... moral reality has gone. _m

__I was a ten year old Cub Scout aspiring to become a Boy Scout, when I asked my Mom and Dad if I could begin to carry a pocket knife. At that time we all knew and valued the differences between tools and weapons, the hammer,  a saw,  an axe,  or a knife, and on and on, and on. In a short period of time,  I was given the nod from Dad and Mom, and received their approval to carry that tool; that was sixty-four years ago.

deep questions
in the forest of the young
a broad trail

__I became that 'Scout' and carried my pocket knives through these many years.  But now, as things are in the "crippling days," before I leave my home place, I'm sure to set my pocket knife on the 'dry-sink'... pedantically I leave it home.  Paranoia seeps in, as I'd not wish to be seen using that tool,  then replacing that knife to my pocket.  I could easily be charged with the feloniously concealing of a harmful and deadly weapon. Paranoia sires Pedanticism!

this trail narrows
in moral reality
history lost

A haibun written this spring.

__ This evening's stroll at pond side with our walking sticks at hand; we speak in silent glances. Our nodding heads point to swans on the far side, and our smiles find a Great Blue, slowly wading into this watery sunset. Eyes point to an otter leading its swim path wake, and an owl that awaits the moonrise. A raccoon looking our way, tilts its head.

infants rise
within natures time
eyes value

Good wishes, friends!
__This story... was scribbled in 1968, on a yellow legal pad. Now, as haibun, a -new- approach.


During the moon of the tree frogs, that time between the last melt of snow and when the ground flowers burst, we traveled to our camp of green leaves... our summer camp at the place of our ancestor's mounds.
   
      We Mahicans covered the wigwam poles with hides and cleared the fire pits, we removed the bark covers from the woodpiles, built fires to roast our food and redden the boil rocks; we hung the stew bags to boil. The paths to the river were cleared. Some Mahicans went to the fields to start the squash, the beans and maize, while others went to the waters to mend their traps and catch fresh fish. Some went to the forest's edge for partridge, and others to the river-swamps to gather lily roots and groundnuts for the stew. At the end of that first day's work, it seemed the people of the Housatonic... had never been away.
      I knew the faces of that night's firelight, faces that talked the stories of the Mahican people, faces of our history, of our comfort, faces of family and of the clan, familiar faces, the faces of time.  

green leaves
the tales of things that were
firelight

     Too old to work, the elders minded we, the too young to work, and like the clan dogs that dozed lazily in the heat of the closer sun, so did the elders. While they slumbered in that warmth I took my newly awakened dreams to the Housatonic, and there I mixed those dreams with the river's flow.
      A pool under the shadow of a great tree called to me, it snared my senses and drew them toward its depth. There, a face shown back, a strangers face, a nameless face, a visitor from a mysterious world of time and he stared at me with surprised fear in his eyes. I had frightened this water face, and he had frightened me. Common fear had become our common ally, and in an instant's daring I conquered my fear and reached out to touch the water face. As I stretched my arm across the river's pool, the  stranger's quivering hand reached upward and joined with mine; together we touched that face... as it hovered above the river's ancient sand and stone.

joining hands
in this common strength
a warm river

      After each summer's harvest we returned to our winter grounds, a mountain hollow that guarded us from that season's bitterness, a forest cove surrounded by great pines and laurel, and there, we were safe within that shield. Apart from the winter's snow and wind we were sheltered from the wicked breath of Hobbamono, the bringer of all evil.
      With each season's return to our camp of the green leaves, I wandered to the Housatonic and to the pool of the water face. The river, its hidden pool and the great tree, the ancient sand and stone, all remained as the were. Only the face was the changer, it was forever, never as it was, and I was its captive... bound to this water face by its changes; changes that happened, it seemed, without reason.
      In one of the many seasons of green leaves, I awoke from my doze in that warmer sun, and roamed to that Housatonic pool. There, the water face shown as it did when I was young, but quickly faded away. Only the ancient sand and stone remained, and as I reached out to touch the face that once was, a hand reached upward and joined again with mine; this spirit hand led me to my ancestor's mounds. 
      At one with the spirits, I was a part of the firelight stories in the Mahican camp of green leaves... were the ground flowers burst, and of those long winter nights within the mountain's forest shield. I became one of the many tales spoken across the firelight.

the tales told
in the smell of night flowers
rising smoke

As your water face changes, know... that to the source you will return, and that changes are the reason to cherish time. That is all there is to know; smoke in the wind.

__I felt the guilt; it had been too long since I traveled to my homeland, the Berkshire Foothills, and my needed visit to my Mother's and Father's grave site. A busy but satisfying week.

__I stepped to their marker, and before them I sat to my heals and reached out to touch their carved names. As the morning sun painted my reflection on their glassy stone, it shown back with the image of their faces. "We've not forgotten you," they said, and I answered, "nor have I,  you." 
__I left my two cents... well hidden there; the first penny, minted the year of my Father's passing, the second... the year that my Mother followed.

new 
the fresh cut grass
morning breeze

__I turned and took the first steps away, but in glancing back I sensed I was not  leaving, I was walking to... to count many more steps.

the doves
their counted steps
many more

European settlers traveled west during the years of colonization, and this continent's native peoples were displaced, severely handled and ill regarded.  In this time of disuse, a phrase became common among the Native American clans, a metaphor perhaps, that referred to the reasonable... native mistrust of the settlers. 

__The owls spoke few words, and when they traveled away in that silence, they left little evidence of their having been.
__Geese talked loudly in false words and left behind in the echoes of that din, the soils of their existence. "The talking of evil birds."


we hear
the talking of evil birds
feathers on the wind

__The tornados passed well to the north of us causing, though not to compare with Tupelo, severe damages to Springfield, Worcester, Munson and more towns and cities; sadly, four deaths. Here, near Plymouth, only some very severe thunder storms, and the weather bureau in Taunton recorded along the South Shore, 300 lightning strikes in a mere 15 minutes.
__This time in one's life... just one lightning strike.


tornados
tear away this history
lightning strikes

How slowly things change, and yet, how quickly.
__From creaking ice to this greening underbrush... but a moment in time. Just yesterday we were fighting snow and frozen pathways, confined in our boots and parkas, hoods and gloves, the only sounds were the howl of the winds and driven snows.
__Today the tree buds are swollen, the birds are calling, and the squirrels, the chipmunks and rabbits are tending to their awakening, and the Sun warms our world.
__The flowers are smiling; its time to put the snow-shovels away.


green and blue
beyond this winter's bounds
flowers smile

I referred to her silently as "Shelly," but, of course, not in class.
__It was 1959 and Shelly was an elderly, High School English teacher; as a sophomore, with extreme misfortune I was assigned to her class. She pulled and pulled, and I hated every moment. As a Junior I was in her English Literature class, I hated every moment. Senior year? I chose to enroll in Shelly's Creative Writing course, an optional class, and I hated every moment.
__Shelly never taught me how to think as she might think, or to dream as she might dream, to write as she would write, or to understand as she understood. She taught me to think as I would think, to dream as I would dream, to write as I would write, and to understand as I would know.
__ She once said: "A poet can only put marks on the page, it is the reader that must interpret the dream."
__Shelly was a teacher, long before the word 'imprint' became a synonym for 'educate'.



the teacher
pulls the student from the root
a tree spreads

This haiku from 2008, its explanation from moments ago. Perhaps, then, it has become a haibun. _m

__Soon to be... as days are longer, the sun warmer and the nights remain cold, this change of pressures causes the sap to flow. New buds will soon stand and redden, as they begin their swell toward the leaves of May.
__Shortly, the taps will be in the maples... the sugar of spring.

old trees
their life begins its flow
closer sun

Recycled thought, haibun of a sort.

__I am the splash that missed the funnel's gaping mouth; free, and not locked in this bottle of someone else's preset dreams, I trickle down this bottle's glassn' side and evaporate into... my own adventure.

a free drop
travels its chosen path
this bird flys

__This brook flows into Cape Cod Bay. At high tide its "slow-flow pools" will ice over, and standing above that thin ice, the heads of this brook pool's stones can be seen.
__When the Bay's tide lowers the pool's water level follows; as the thin ice breaks away, around each stone remains a halo of ice... glimmering in the morning sun.
__The cycle will renew.

headwater pool
ice halos this naked stone
the tide rises