Poetry

Haiku
by Shannon Hiatt

He's an eccentric some say;
Gray braid under brown bowler
And everyday, a new kite
That he's made
Flown with signed witness

For their time
He makes a payment with
that day's kite
And his own signature.

Tonight is my turn.
He's going to fly a kite
That will be mine
For the price of just my name.

The night wants to be a haiku:
Bare feet in wet grass
Tiny kite cuts moonless sky
Comes down too soon...

Each haiku is one syllable short.

I'm carrying my shoes;
The field is a wet sponge,
Giving up the precise weight
Of my foot in old rain
With each step.

There's no wind
Scraps of this afternoon's storms hang low,
Undisturbed.

He hands me today's kite,
My kite,
And walks away down the field
Tethering me to this moment with a red thread
As he goes.

Half a block of puddles away
He stops
Turns
Whistles;

Lets me know it's time.

In a instant, my kite is gone
So high I've nearly lost it;
Its red body is too dark
But its magnificent tail,
Blue and white,
Waves back to me;
Beckons.

Without thinking I'm following,
Holding my breath.
It has to fly for five minutes
To mark it in his book,
To sign and buy my kite

I'm counting now;
Steps
Stars
Seconds
Counting them,

I'm watching my kite
Willing it to fly despite the still,

And it does fly,

Just long enough.

He's whistling again, Or still,
I've walked halfway down the field in a trance
So I'm close enough now to hear,
And he's bringing in my kite,
Smiling,
Handing me his book;

I can hardly write.
I try to jot down the night's haiku
But I'm one syllable short.
I sign it anyway
And he trades me:
His book with my signature
For my kite with his

And for one perfect beat
I am complete.
I have lived a haiku made of earth air and water
Wrapped in red tissue paper and
Tied up with crepe paper tail.

I am full.