“In Perfect travel we do not know where we are going, in contemplation we do not know what we are looking at…”–Angus Graham
A savage mosquito christens the inside of my right ankle with an arrow from his bow. Put thicker skin on. See the Osage orange and its hefty hedgeapple–a swollen hydrangea of autumnal air. Its heavy orbs hang beside untrimmed Christmas and elm~a long lost memory, prehistoric trophy or tourist souvenir. Warty and sourpuss at the end of summer, a ludicrous fruit for squirrels to nearly lose their teeth on! A tough hickory thing; bull-strong as Mrs. Snodgrass, my old recess warden. That opinionated grapefruit who hid a tiny orange-colored seed beneath pale puckered lips, beneath bitter fruit, brutal thorns, extremely good hard wood! She fenced us hog tight. Wee monkey brains on such a graceless tree, yet we bleed bright yellow when our heartwood’s cut. Drawn from Osage blood or picked from somebody’s garden, may the undisciplined hedgeapple live on.
I apply my heart
to remember this hard thing–
thorns provide a nest
I joined the Ligo Haibun “Fascination” party a tad late., but here are some other entries: