Already I have forgotten how to breathe and my mouth tastes as dry as stone. Even the memory of you does not change what has not changed in me, and cannot alter what can never be the same. I have lived in this house too long. Under the eaves, wild animals have scratched large holes and lined them with leaves. They have taken over what I cannot reach. What I cannot reach, I can never touch. Here comes the time of drought, the dry months without rain. I do not think we can go through this again.
another year gone—
I save the wishbone
for another
Marjorie Buettner lives and writes in Minnesota. Her first collection of haiku and tanka—Seeing It Now—is available through Red Dragonfly Press. Her most recent publication credits are: CHO, Sante Fe Tanka Prose, American Tanka, Simply Haiku, Ribbons, Gusts, and five anthologies: County Roads, Ash Moon Anthology, Tanka Prose Anthology, Landfall and Fire Pearls, Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart. She also writes book reviews for moonset LITERARY NEWSPAPER, Gusts and Modern Haiku.
Marjorie Buettner lives and writes in Minnesota. Her first collection of haiku and tanka—Seeing It Now—is available through Red Dragonfly Press. Her most recent publication credits are: CHO, Sante Fe Tanka Prose, American Tanka, Simply Haiku, Ribbons, Gusts, and five anthologies: County Roads, Ash Moon Anthology, Tanka Prose Anthology, Landfall and Fire Pearls, Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart. She also writes book reviews for moonset LITERARY NEWSPAPER, Gusts and Modern Haiku.