midnight fireworks —

we find ourselves back

at the beginning

back from our trip

the birds here at home

sounding new again

fiftieth birthday —

I feel the gravel slide

under my wheels

a queztal’s cry

sets us all to looking —

who will see her first?

just after sunset

between the birds and the frogs

a patch of silence

we try again

to imagine these mountains

before roads

Costa Rican Christmas —

we pause to let a crab

cross the road

a trail in the sand

where a child dragged her towel

for emphasis

sorry, snail!

now I see you are still

using that shell

approaching footsteps —

my heart still jumps up

at the thought of you

we fill the long night

with our questions and stories —

mid-winter Solstice

(This will be my last haiku here for a little bit... but not because I'm not writing! Just taking a step away from the digital life as the year turns over. Please consider taking this opportunity to poke around in the archives... you could even leave me a - *gasp* - comment!)

choking

on the world’s exhaust —

December lilac buds

its worth reflected

only in his children’s eyes —

grandfather’s old chair

three pigeons

arguing over their places

under the bridge

happier still

when a second voice joins in —

early morning song

she asks again

where it is we’re going —

early Alzheimer’s

you lift your eyes

to follow the hawk in flight —

I watch you instead

our clothes clinging

as we come in from the fog —

how will it taste?

keys on the counter

as we pull the locked door shut —

geese fly on ahead

mid-December —

one hawk watching for movement

on the edge of flight

left on the platform

as he steps aboard —

brakes releasing

my apology

lodged to the left of your heart —

another near miss

our to-do list

with being lazy together

right up at the top

remembering

to feel the sun on my face

as the days grow short

still waiting

for the hot cocoa to cool —

you pull me closer

New Haircut

(When did he get so grown up?)

holiday baking —

I think of my grandmother

standing at the sink

blade by blade

our lawn going to frost

while we sleep

dementia —

the azalea leaves give up,

turning gold at last

the day’s last sunlight

poured out over the lake  —

scarcity. abundance.

early December —

a groomed field of winter wheat

where the corn once stood

looking away —

how my father taught me

to see the stars

holiday baking —

but nowhere for me to send

your biscotti now