When I was a child, our rusted roof is usually dotted with sparrows looking for leftover rice. Hop. Hop. Hopping every morning. Singing to the tune of my mother’s waking up pots. We are pardoned from the persimmon leaves of fall. The spooky skeletons of winter. However, our pockets are filled with flood that knocks, holding hands with August, cool northeast monsoon wind sneaking on its back. It is the season of champorado, our chocolate rice porridge, accompanied by the fresh sun-dried fish, carrying the smell of a good morning and my mother’s love.
Sparrows sing a call
for sticky morn rice porridge,
as its feathers dry.
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Nice one!!!
Happy you dropped by to read mine
Much💛love
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always my pleasure, Gillena!
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A lovely meander into childhood moments, awakened by the sound of chirping birds…
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meander. it’s an apt word to describe this. thank you, Ain!
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Very nicely done! Sparrows seem to always be plentiful! When I was young they loved to live in the barn on my uncle’s farm. Lots to eat there!
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thanks a lot, Roth!! wow. can imagine their daily feast in the farm!
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Yes, a lot of feed to nibble on!
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indeed!
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Beautiful Rose! 🙂
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thank you, Rob!
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You describe that so well. I was right there with you. “carrying the smell of a good morning and my mother’s love.” So sweet. And that haiku is great
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awww. thank you for highlighting those details, Debi! and the praise for the humble haiku.
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A gorgeous, nostalgic haibun incorporating memories and the shift of seasons….and love.
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nostalgic. yes. this emotion has flooded me as i write, Mish. thank you.
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Beautiful.
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thank you!
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I love how you weaved it together… both the porridge and the birds… season marked by the food and the birds.
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you got that so well, Bjorn. it’s true. the seasons come and go, so as food and the birds!
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