Thinking of home, a bit of longing in the form of a haibun, in response to the dverse prompt.
It’s there when you pass the oak copse, a solid place of golden stone, watching over the water meadow and ancient willow trees. The cows are gone now and nothing grazes the lush grass, but jays shriek at our arrival and the orioles pause in their fluting. The house is cool when the sun is hot, red and orange terracotta floor tiles take the heat and keep it safe for later. Shutters creak open, heavy hinges sigh with elderly pleasure, and lime-washed plaster walls, wooden beams and the quick skitter of lizards over the sill greet the light.
There’s a kitchen with a stone sink and a farmhouse table, and a fireplace I can stand up inside. There’s a bedroom with a fireplace and a bed, and a study with a window looking south and a window looking west, that was a best room for an old lady who believed in best rooms. Above is an attic full of dust motes and owls where we will make rooms for visitors, the only change we will make, for when our wild geese return and our nest fills again.
Sun on red tiled roof,
summer clay floor, lizard-streaked,
sky, stone, stars, always.