Tuesday, November 27, 2007


I beg my husband to stop at an old apple orchard in the Davis Mountains. The owner sells his ruby reds in bushel boxes stacked on the back of a green pickup. "Too many," my spouse protests, but I insist.

Two days later crossing the desert plains, our truck and trailer sway. A West Texas windstorm. He grips the wheel; I muffle my fear. Between Ozona and Sonora, we find a rundown RV park. I step from the truck and wind-driven sand stings my arms and face. The trailer door whips from my hand, slams against the side. From the doorway, the cloying scent of apples.

I peel, pare, simmer, sprinkle with cinnamon. Gusts rock the aluminum trailer; sand peppers the walls. The wind howls, but we eat our applesauce in silence.

our anniversary
only his voice
on the phone

by Lynn Edge
Tivoli, Texas
first published in Table Turning: BHS Haibun Anthology 2005

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

The Fall in modern dress. The realism of your dramatic description of the sand storm gives the presentation weight and immediacy. Liked this a lot. Especially like the ironic interweaving of present day events with Biblical echoes, culminating in the haiku, where the male assumes the role of leadership, while the wife's silence is more discontent than obedience, a 'silent storm.'

Garry Eaton