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

white-throated sparrows
scattering aloft 
at the sight of me

Fallsington Meeting —
the lyrics of the old songs
catch in our throats

I stamp the moon's face
onto my calendar's squares —
a reminder to look up

never-used dishes
complete with dead bugs —
cabinet clean out

flames climbing canyons
reduced visibility
yet tomorrow arrives

we hear them scolding
before one bursts into flight —
kingfisher turf wars

pebbles in pockets —
at bedtime he wants to know
where the colors went

snowy winter night —
we step into the moonlight
and follow our breath

listening tonight
to two kinds of quiet —
before snow, and after

early morning snow —
a vole gives me the small gift
of its attention

this morning the ice
stretched to the lake's far shore —
what could the sun say?

two brown creepers
spiralling up an oak tree —
we tilt our heads back

no rain for months —
every growing thing
turned into tinder

a space in the clouds
just wide enough for the moon 
as it blocks out Mars

tiny sparrow tracks
a record of their seeking
mapped in the snow

glowing horizon —
Eaton and Palisades fires
burning off the dark

at day's end
we trade vixen sightings
lengthening her stride

where the lake narrows —
geese in a shrinking circle
as the ice moves in

mending my nets —
turning over names of friends
I need to check on

tamping down the snow
as they fluff to twice their size —
dark-eyed juncos

Carolina wren
staying put for the winter —
no thought of escape

frozen solid day —
time to pour warm water
into the birdbath

first light of the day
finding its way past the news —
rabbit prints in snow

second day this year
where the fox's path and mine 
failed to ever cross

into the night sky
a line of satellites
as if pulled on a string