each iris stalk
racing in its quiet way
to be first to bloom

humming along
to a song I don't know yet —
carried by the chords

catbirds at dusk
tuning up their instruments
deep in the bamboo

hazy flower moon — 
we find our way forward
through remembered light

hand-scattering 

zinnia seeds like a prayer

over rain damp earth

in the pink of it
a tiny hitchhiking ant — 
peony bouquet

tiny house sparrows
gauging the width of our vents
by slipping inside

silently jostling
for the best view of the sun —
azalea blossoms

a figure in black
walking at the edge of the road  —
dotting a solid line

highway hotel —
all night the sound of trucks
braking down the hill

the level of fear
rising like groundwater  —
trapped with no runway

describing branches
so we can help each other
find the green heron

heavy-hearted —
we pull out the old sorrows
to compare notes

spring peepers
insistently reminding —
we needed this rain

Mayday, mayday —
learning what we would do
in an emergency

overnight —
azalea blossom count
simply exploding

song sparrows
assessing nest locations —
does anywhere feel safe?

arguing over
where the acorns got stashed —
squirrels in spring

yellow jasmine —  
collecting the sunshine
and holding it close

chimney swifts are back —
here I am looking too close
or too far away

wildfire smoke
working its way up the coast  —
throats slowly closing

every move 
traceable in this world 
dusted with pollen

shake out some sunshine
and tuck all the turtlenecks 
back in the drawer

long days without rain —
drivers crowd the northbound lanes
chased by the fire

the pure joy that comes
with new father energy —
should have been Mahmoud's

late-night baking —
the scent of banana bread
tucked under the eaves

coaxing the drivers
into honking their horns —
protest persuasion

warm spring breezes
and the last songs of the day —
leave the door open

magnolia blossoms
ready for inspection
by the mourning doves

justice for Kilmar —
what can anyone say to
his children tonight?

trip planning —
remembering the feeling
of spreading out a map

deep comfort that comes
from leaning on each other —
bamboo in the wind

a song's final note
as long as the moon is full —
hearts opening wide

overflowing with
birdsong and blossoms —
pink moon season

rain without stopping —
I tell myself again
that the moon's still there

hoarse the next day —
I don't even remember
what I was yelling

white-throated sparrows
on their way out while catbirds
get ready to shine

no weeping here —
magnolias telling the cherries
to buck up

asleep and awake
with my back to the future —
only the past feels real

Rosie learns the trick —
how turning things inside out
hides all your stitches

the rain held off
while the chants of the people
bounced off the buildings

newly hatched eaglets
looking like piles of fluff —
flight a long way off

restless nights
of twisted, untucked blankets  —
when will she be home?

as sleep washes in
my breath synchronizes with
hymns from my childhood

Wisconsin fights off
the idea that the people
can be fooled

lightning strike 
with a thunder crack chaser  —
the storm is right here

crows in the morning
persistently insisting
that no one sleeps in

the edge of my hand
black from inking slogans
on my protest signs

downy woodpecker  —
a red exclamation point
as it veers away

early spring at the shore —
we learn one more time about 
cold weather sunburn

yesterday's buds
unlocked by today's sunshine —
eager white blossoms

spots of dried blood
on my arm where the thorns tried
to stop me today

something in the rain
reminds me of my queerness
steady and treasured

after one warm day
the woods are filling in —
green raises her hand

late afternoon sun —
the fish crows vote to check out
a new roosting tree

fresh water
in the bird bath — 
outdoor spring cleaning

slowed by the fog
chilled by the rain —
still, I welcome spring

second blossom —
the orchid professes
its faith in the sun

great blue heron
in one nest among many
high above the creek

that first violet
teaching us to see
all the others

even miles away
I can still feel your laugh
here where my heart beats

Haikuversary #12!

rain and more rain  —

seed catalogs offering

sun on every page

Friends, tomorrow is my #haikuversary! 

With tomorrow's post, I will have been posting at least one haiku I can stand to share  every day for TWELVE YEARS. (!)

In celebration, I hereby invite you to join me in celebrating the art of haiku.

Here are some ways that you might decide to join in the fun. (Put whatever you decide to share either here in the comments or over on Blue Sky, where I am, of course @butwait. I will be traveling for some the day tomorrow, so I'm trying to get out in front a little.)

• Poke around in the archives, find a favorite, and share it! Bonus points if you tell me why you like it. (But sometimes it's hard to say why, so no pressure.)
• Find a photo that you think pairs well with one of my haiku, and either tell me about it or create a haiga (image + haiku, e.g. this one)!
• Pick a date that is meaningful to you - just the date, not the year - and let me share a haiku I wrote on that date. Bonus points - again, no pressure! - if you tell me why the date is significant to you.
• Send me a word that you'd like to see me try to incorporate into a haiku (no promises!)
• Tell me about a moment that seemed "haiku-worthy" to you, but that you haven't quite managed to capture in the way you were hoping to
• Share a haiku of your own! (And don't worry too much about the whole 5-7-5 thing.)
• Tell me about your haiku reading practice! Do you come here and read mine, or do you only read them on Twitter? Who else writes haiku that you enjoy?
• Got any other ideas? In the past I've had a few friends write a haiku in response to one of mine, which has been lovely and thrilling.

Thank you for considering dedicating some of your time and energy to helping me celebrate this small thing amidst everything big and scary that's going on right now.

under last year's leaves
this year's infant bees
and beneath them, seeds

crocuses coming —
I stop to wonder
who's cheering who

mid March blood moon —

another night finds me

up past my bedtime

dear friends of the sky
we can hear you up there
as you return home

listening for the sound
of meltwater trickling home —
spring peepers come next

long airport lines —
I try to see strangers through
gender fluid eyes

Little Leaguers
giggling in the hotel hallway —
our new favorite song

one tree seemed lit up
the memory of that gold
lives with my treasures

snow turns to hail —
cars sliding off mountain curves
in slow motion

tomorrow's newspaper —
I try not to plan out
my anger in advance

if we stop and breathe
will it deepen our resolve
or undam these tears?

Carolina wren 
beats out the mourning dove for
first song of the day

walking into wind —
smiling, I feel the cold
in my teeth

snow drops pushing up
while daffodils await
their turn to shine

an owl-sized hole

in the maple's dark trunk 

complete with screech owl

which of the old songs

I've sung to the neighbor boy

will he remember?

every day's news
a huge front page story
in the olden times

radio buttons
pre-set to the old songs —
loyal listener

every night

a little smaller —

waning winter moon

with each careful step

I imagine what could break —

icy morning walk

sweating from the heat

of my overclocking brain —

I kick off the covers

waiting for feeling

to come back into my toes —

mid-winter problems

filling in the spaces

of lyrics I've forgotten

with la's and mm's

ice returns

to the surface of the lake

smoother after melting

we cut their stems short

to bring the water closer —

winter tulips

first sound of the day —

a woodpecker gets to work 

high and out of sight

arrows shot straight up

gave them a chance to be tough —

standing ramrod straight

ice under the snow —

I bring my heel down hard

shock waves radiating

my kitchen orchid

looks out over falling snow

and buds anyway

homemade icing —

our long sweet history of 

licking these spoons

I know I should go —

the prospect of climbing stairs

keeps me from my bed

freshly fallen —

a father tries to explain

it's not snowball snow

hardy snowdrops

exchanging little love notes

under the ice

morning chickadee —

leaving some space

for the other songs

the people's win —

everyone planning to wear

all green tomorrow

ice against windows  —

surrounded by the sounds

of winter at bay

driving in circles

with toxic ash from the fires —

where to lay it down?

oak leaves still clinging —
how long until the insistent
push of new growth?

oak leaves still clinging —

how long until the insistent

push of new growth?

cat on the table —
we uninvite him until
he loses interest

grey, overcast sky

with sun behind there somewhere —

weak tea, growing cold

a break in the storm —
space for the urgent scratch of
pencil on paper

how many days
below freezing do we need
to walk on the lake?

contagious feelings —

I watch the birds get braver

one seed at a time

taking smaller steps —

only ice and frozen ground 

to the end of sight

Venus and the moon
seeming close to each other
in a winter sky

four long years later
we could all still be better
at accepting help

unacceptable —

even while I look away

the death toll rises

the front yard bunny
rejoices in the reappearance
of grass after snow

long V's of geese
winging across a dark sky —
moonless New Year

warmer days —
the ice covering the lake
starts to look slushy

catch and release —
the owl's wing flashing briefly
as the sun slips away