the leaves that neither

turned brilliant colors nor fell —

this is their haiku

out of town guests

making hand-gathered bouquets

of our fallen leaves

the fox by the road —
lines drawn with liquid grace, 
even in death

cooler days —

mayflies come inside to say

hello and goodbye

laughing at myself

when the neighbor’s darn porch light

turns beautiful moon

box of owl pellets —

the science teacher stands there

grinning

the day’s early start —

a spider begins her web

in moonlight

the call and response

of bedtime affirmations —

love’s layered quilts

day’s end

and the sound of a dog’s sigh

curling into it

black before

the rest of the world goes dark —

pine trees at dusk

(Last week, Jonathan Ferrell, a former Florida A&M football player who recently moved to the Charlotte, N.C., area to be with his fiancée, had a horrible car crash. The 24-year-old broke out the back window to escape and walked, injured, to knock on the nearest door for help. Now, Ferrell is dead. The neighbor he asked for aid called 911 (“He is trying to kick down my door,” she cried on the phone), and one of the responding police officers shot the unarmed Ferrell 10 times.)

in advance
we decide not to mind
if it rains

her confident gaze —
this time, surely, the tree hides
a squirrel

(With Robin Segal and Junie in Toronto.)

following a path

shaped by the needs of deer —

food, water, safety

“Go look at the moon,”

she tells me, and I try to,

but here comes a cloud...

late night walk —

wishing the skunk family

the best of health

these now-bare branches

stirring up the Milky Way —

cold nights on their way

sweeping the porch

at the end of the party —

autumn breeze

we can’t get over

her busy little nibbles —

backyard bunny

distant sirens

and the shine of wet pavement

after the storm

(Holding the people of Seaside Heights in my heart.)

oh, okay, August

come back to visit —

but just for today!

one last heat wave —

I join the spirea,

wilt at the edges

autumn’s colors —

a brand new folder

for every subject

honking and jostling

over this year’s alphabet —

geese getting ready

it seems we’re adrift

until we look behind

and see our wake

moonless night

my father’s voice in my head —

as I name the stars

old climbing tree

so big it fills up the frame

of this summer day

poking holes

in the morning’s fabric —

treetop crows

mosquitoes sneak in

to hum duets with our

refrigerator

end of the day —

discovering that we both saw

that tiny bunny

the slamming screen door —
not fast enough to keep
summer from slipping out

Daily Haiku