Rain drops on my walk.
Just small splashes on my head
that dried right away.
we are already at the point in the exercise where i am actively wondering what is concrete and what is figurative. i questioned using the word 'splashes' because it felt so evocative. my face was still swimming in goo that may have had something to do with it. the word 'just' in this also feels too distant from something lived. interesting.
Laid out by a cold,
whining and stuffed and tired.
It's rough being sick.
okay, so contractions are not strictly acceptable in the form of haiku. i get this and appreciate it. also my face was filled with ick when I wrote this and I am keeping it the way that it is to honor that experience and the fact that I wrote something on the day.
The sky this morning
was clouds and clear blue and pink
near the rising sun.
Extra:
The crows are not gone.
I am the one missing them
in the cold season.
New Moon, 2026 Feb
The red-wing blackbirds have returned,
I saw one from the train, perched on tall dead grass.
The crows are fewer and fewer,
flying north even through my dreams;
caws shift to whistles and chirps,
overlapping soundtracks at morning.
I am all churned mud and mixed water
at the confluence of welcome and farewell;
snow melt and rain gauges flow
cleansing as tears and deeply rooted.
Buds begin to show on tree branches
gray as bark, as a storm, as a sneeze.
I will settle seeds in soil and sun,
thaw them in blessings of memory as prayer
find me as I thrill to birdsong and daffodils
and blades of grass in the warming days.
Birds fill the park's trees
tucked between downtown buildings.
A smile on my walk.
