Originally Posted by
miyako73
A girl, near puberty, by the window
when the sun wanes at three,
knows the atmosphere of melancholia,
the shape of anguish,
the multiple shades of dejection,
palpable, wet on her arm.
Drizzles are the hints that she is about
to cry, her moist eyes staring,
a haiku she does not have to recite loud,
the minimalism of words
visible, when she blinks once, a knife,
if closed, a season she recalls.
The tree has fruits, but tough to tell
whether poison or sugar,
her tongue has forgotten the mangoes
her father used to pick,
their thick skin her mother peeled
by hand, her excited bites.
Sprinkles are her sobs before drops
when she cannot hold any
longer, her mouth struggling to speak,
a tanka, taps, breaths,
her sigh extended as if a deliberate
sound pleading to be heard.
The road spared from the ugliness
of asphalt is always blank,
perhaps paved wide to suggest once
there were humans,
rocks waiting all day to wound feet,
stones losing their relevance.
Showers are when she has to let go
but still restrained a bit,
short but not a cry, long but not a wail,
almost like a haibun,
the slow motion of her lips a murmur
trying to explain the details.
The grass blades have also ceased
to be green, no dancing
to the hasty wind, the drooping a bow
now that it is over,
their lifelessness a surrender, no more
sad existence on the sidewalk.
Pours are her weeping, uncontrollable
on her face, uninterrupted,
the endless exchange of walls, the inert
dialogue of ceilings,
the soliloquy of dark laminate floors,
a renga of tears and sniffles.
The birds seldom appear when the sky
is clear, if they are around,
afterthoughts, if not seen, their disdain,
no blossoms to seduce,
the rustles of dead leaves unbearable,
the cheeks of a child morose.