Marieta Maglas

Quadruple Haibun for Christmas

Aurora Borealis, a shimmering illusion of nature. The sun slices through the icy veil of the sky. I am in an igloo hotel. My crimson cup brims with steaming water, and I am patiently awaiting the mint tea to meld within. Its scent is green. I gaze at the kaleidoscopic sunbeam hues twirling in the polar expanse. The lifeless snow looks like velvety moss. All the fir trees still cling to their foliage despite the frost’s grip.

Christmas has returned,

and I feel transported

to another realm.

I am captivated by this ethereal dance of light. This planet is a colossal electromagnet, driving everything into motion. We are living electromagnets, radiating warmth. We inhale & exhale. The leaves’ photosynthesis is the antithesis of our breathing. Imagine each tiny leaf, like those of the pines, conjuring oxygen from carbon dioxide to sustain life. Imagine Adam & Eve draped in still-breathing banana leaves.

Think of this earth

wrapped in yellow & crimson,

the dead leaves of fall.

The boreal sunbeams crave nitrogen & oxygen to flourish in green. Imagine the boreal snow looking like grass. It is but a mirage. I take a slow sip of my hot tea. It seeps into my body, which is 80% water. A cascade of colors, reminiscent of the sun. Each arc of this Arctic Circle looks like a prism. The clock on the wall throbs erratically, mimicking the heartbeat of anguish, warping the essence of time, its pulsations accompanied by sounds that send shivers down the spine. Through the window, I behold the snow-draped rocks, appearing as if cloaked in moss. I lean closer to the glass.

Leaving the imprint

of my lipstick-laden lips.

An indirect kiss.

Santa Claus resides in my memories. During Christmas, I still imagine him venturing to realms where sunlight bathes the trees. Warm light. Different trees illuminated from various angles, reflections & refractions, the fluidity of water & the friction, vanishing. In the restaurant, beside a fire fueled by seal fat, the chefs meticulously craft the meat. An enticing aroma of fish wafts through the air. Living without flowers can be a challenge. Before me sits a Yup’ik couple. They wear garments woven from the skin of seals. Attire for all humanity. The world surrounding me continues to feel unreal. Africa is splitting apart under the relentless sun, and perhaps this icy realm offers refuge. Perhaps.

Dressed in white, the wife

looks at her Yup’ik husband,

while he sings Pisik.