homecoming . . .

Each April, Oklahoma poet Ken Hada gathers writers together for three days of readings,  camaraderie and celebration of the written and spoken word at East Central University’s Scissortail Creative Writing Festival in Ada, Oklahoma. This was the second year I’ve had the pleasure of participating  in Scissortail by reading a selection of my haibun to festival-goers.

The last day of the festival was the 12th anniversary of my mother’s death, and the haibun I read at this year’s Scissortail paid tribute to her. (My mother grew up in Ada and attended East Central before moving to Norman, Oklahoma, where she graduated from law school, married my father, and set about raising a family.)

I’m happy with my reading, and grateful, as always, for the opportunity to share my writing with a live audience that is warm, receptive and responsive. Still, I wish I’d included the following haibun (which I’ve previously posted here) in my reading selection. I’m not sure why I didn’t. Perhaps this story is still too close for me to speak the words out loud.

Winter’s Light

It’s late January—one of those rare, balmy winter days that occasionally happens in Arkansas—and my mother and I have taken advantage of the break in weather to take a day trip to one of our favorite places.

We’ve been making the trek to this mountain town—together and individually—for almost three decades. Its Victorian architecture and cobblestone streets always captivate us, no matter the season. But winter—when it’s quiet—without tourists—makes us feel this is our own private playground. Today, we’ve wandered through the few shops that are open; ambled through a woodland chapel; driven to the panoramic crest overlooking the surrounding valley. We’re happy.

As we head west out of town, winter’s light—the kind that’s clear and golden and makes you want to testify—bathes us and the receding streets with more warmth as the sun begins to set. It’s then that my mother, one eye to the future, says to me, “Perhaps you can live here.” When I’m gone, she means, but she doesn’t have to say more. 

soapsuds . . .
mother tells me how
she’d like to die

Contemporary Haibun 15, April 2014

fear of dancing: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku 2013

Contemporary Haibun Online 9.3, October 2013

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About Margaret Dornaus

I’m a writer and a teacher, as well as a haiku-doodler. I live in a beautiful woodland setting, surrounded by native oak forests, that inspires me to record haiku snapshots of luna moths and our resident roadrunner, and even an occasional black bear as it hightails it across the top of my road, my mongrel dog barking at its heels as I watch with wonder. My work as a travel writer has appeared in publications from The Dallas Morning News to the Robb Report. You can find examples of my travel writing–as well as excerpts from a travel memoir I’m working on–at my other WordPress site, Travelin’ On. What more than that do you need to know? Only that I started this blog with an eye toward collaboration. Got a haiku? Send it my way. . . . I’m all about new visions & voices. Best, Margaret
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13 Responses to homecoming . . .

  1. Simply beautiful, Maggie.

    marion

  2. ….”and makes you want to testify -.”…like the image my own mind conjures up….it is so easy to read your prose….you are blessed Margaret…

  3. the tenderness in “soapsuds” … ah…

  4. janetld says:

    I remember reading this one: outstanding work.
    And glad you got to participate at that festival in OK.

    j.

  5. Adelaide says:

    I remember reading this before and enjoyed reading it again.

    Adelaide

  6. Aquileana says:

    Meaningful and beautiful… Cheers Margaret, Aquileana :)

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