Our beginning-of-the-year selves were wise, y’all. We knew we’d be tired and short on time and pulled in different directions. We knew we’d need something short. Something manageable.

So, we chose to write haibun — a hybrid prose-poetry form that allows for longer musings first, and then, a captured moment, a grace note, a haiku. The first thing that happened (we shouldn’t have been surprised but we were) was the realization that haibun weren’t necessarily or instantly manageable. Sorry.

But the second thing that happened was stunning and beautiful and heartening. A little context. As a group, my poetry sisters and I meet once a month on Zoom — the Sunday before the Friday we intend to post new poems. We chat about life and about our prompts, and then we turn our cameras off and write for awhile, and then we pop back on — usually much relieved to have at least started something, even if (as in the case of the haibun) it was trickier than we’d hoped or anticipated.

This time, it was just Tanita and me on Zoom (see above re. being short on time and pulled in different directions this time of year). We talked a little, generally, about possible topics and approaches for our poems, and then off we went to write.

Friends, when we came back together, we discovered we’d both written about the solstice, we’d both referenced the election (although Tanita had taken her reference out by then), and we’d both ended our poems with singing!!

Wha!?!?!? It is hard not to see this as a tiny but necessary miracle, the kind that can come from both poetry and being in communion with people you love and trust and get.

So, I post this gratefully and feeling slightly more buoyed and hopeful than I was earlier. Toward the light, my friends… toward the light.

Remembering Autumn on the Solstice
A haibun, by Liz Garton Scanlon

The leaves turn a deep, warm red, and the clocks fall back, and the tired, worried, bundled-up people rush past each other. They rush and complain and lash out and vote. They vote, and the days grow darker and ever darker. A chill slips down our boney spines and our hearts crack like stone. Is there anything alive out here? we wonder. Is there anything alive?

The sun rises up
A fat orange fish splashing sky
We chase it, singing

For the others, go here:
Tanita
Tricia
Mary Lee
Sara
Laura

And for the whole of Poetry Friday, visit Michelle Kogan at More Art 4 All.

We’ll be back in January to update you on our plans for 2025. In the meantime, may you all be safe, healthy, happy and well.