butwait.blogspot.com || At least one haiku I am comfortable sharing. Every day.
we watch the leavesand worry about the roots —Afghani refugees
almost November —the geese seem sure of themselvesuntil they're not
a change at the lake —cormorants perched atopnewly downed branches
ready to dig upevery last tulip bulb —October squirrels
a puddle of red —the maple tree gives inall at once
dogwood saplingon the edge of giving up —not even November
this spider and Ieach waiting for the otherto make a move
where the peoniesused to bloom and hang their heads —an open space
what he taught mebecomes each story's point —my father's birthday
spinning a new webevery morning before dawn —spiders catching light
Friday night —
pulling clean wrinkled clothes
out of the dryer
October moon —a white-throated sparrowserenades the marsh
a faint star wakingas the sun lets go at last —listening with our eyes
(on request, for S.W.)
adding more layersuntil I can feel the press —blankets and friends
busy sanderlings stitching the new wave line —low tide at Holgate
geese overheadcalling out their intentions —fly, stay together
early morning sunspilled out over the bean field —my quiet harvest
kicking the topsoff of bright orange mushrooms —hard day at work
spooky season —the sound of my own bloodrushing in my ears
tall grass drawingbeads of mist from the low clouds —we fight back our tears
all my lettersto my grandmotherhave returned to me
as we stand talkinga leaf floats down to the earth —the tree has a word
our front yard mapleorange around the edges —woodsmoke in the air
rage and betrayal —racing to get the trash outbefore the truck shows
still no sign of light —knowing that it's morningfrom the blend of sounds
here we arepicking at the edges —frayed days
catbirds swooping infor a try at pokeberries —autumn stock-up sale
every every morninga few more petals on the ground
every lighttwinned by the river —the boathouse at night
we leave a spacein our conversation —the flowers speak up
jalapeño slices —fingers still tinglinghours later
