October canal —
capturing and reflecting
the leaves' brilliant hues

fallen leaves gone black
wet and slippery decay —
bringing in the news

tight little bundles —
the last zinnia buds
of the season

nor'easter coming —
the air holds all the rain
it possibly can

acorns underfoot
milkweed fluff in the air —
time to test the heat

the world was better
(I want to say to strangers)
when he was in it

underneath the trees
beneath the grass
voles digging tunnels

fewer flowers now
with hardly any bees
and our friend gone, too

so many photos
of the place the monarch
had just flown away from

we take turns
going out to moongaze
in our stocking feet

fall planting season —
digging one hole
after another

gibbous half moon —
my mother prepares to say
the thing she always says

as close to the fox
as I am to you now
and still not a sound

the bald eagle's
rookie year —
no white head yet!

overgrown path —
I try to think like
last season's deer

calico asters —
bees affirm that even these
are worth a visit

cooler nights at last —
the crickets will be leaving
more time between songs

five kinds of asters
claiming more of the front yard
with each passing day

we try to tell it
how to exit the garage —
curious cricket

sighing together —
old dogs at the end
of a long day

for the first time
I think about planting
my own garlic

drunk on fermented fruit
the swooping bats at dusk
a bit wobbly

another safe bet —
listening for goldfinches
as the garden fades

autumn equinox —
the wasps in the corner
start over again

hydrangeas in fall —
finally showing signs
of slowing down

a hopping sparrow
ahead of me on the path
rediscovers flight

ripe winter berries
against an aster backdrop —
brighter every day

deep in my to-do list
I leave a stove burner on —
the maple turns red

allergy season —
I give up and carry
the tissue box with me

near miss —
I peel a dark red sock
from the washer's drum

late season planting —
we fill the holes with water
to soften the shock

back where we began
Sourland Mountain riders 
trade Poor Farm Hill yarns

we cut back
the rattlesnake master
to give the asters room

still there the next day —
a bee hanging upside down 
from the goldenrod

morning on the lake —
every day I see something
I want to tell my father

morning magpie eye —
a bit of good news glints up
from page twenty-four

my sister came out!
(the newest big brother
makes an announcement)

today's birdsong
makes yesterday's song
not yet the last one

diving cormorant
showing everyone on the lake
how to welcome rain

a weary doe  —
two fawns in constant orbit
around her stillness

empty spiderweb
suddenly overflowing
with morning sunlight

shrieks and squeals —
neighborhood children
stay out late again

the heron's stillness
a bid to be forgotten —
danger never rests

we permit ourselves
the gift of imagining
a world after him

tree swallows swooping
out and back over the field
just because they can

some day he'll be gone —
what can we work to build now
that should exist then?

belted kingfisher
waiting patiently beside the lake
until we find him

slanted evening sun
picking up the purple seeds
at the tops of sawgrass

coastal flooding —
hurricane season 
reminds us who's boss

 yellow flicker —
the day squeaks open
on a rusty hinge

orange skimmers on
the zinnias, then the yarrow —
so many choices!

birdbath bluejay —
the flashy red cardinal 
waits his turn

he sends us selfies
so we can appreciate
his first dress shirts

tiny bits of down
left behind by the birds
after their bath

so far up the oak
we have to look straight up —
yellow-bellied sapsucker

anniversary —
fourteen years of saving
room for dessert

stealthy hermit thrush
pulled by curiosity
comes to check us out

city street trees — 
leaves hanging low
in the summer heat

brush trucks
scooping up all our trimmings —
metallic soundscape

we cut back bamboo
to give the ironwood room —
sky is to be shared

Venus the brighter
with Jupiter edging in —
our pre-dawn light show

children moving out —
my friend and I trade stories
of stifled advice

remembering
that not looking sometimes works —
a few more fireflies

trying to picture
the world as it could be 
starting from this place

scared day laborers
translating for each other
at the council hearing

four am brain whirl —
lining up letters for my
next protest sign

stilt grass erasing
the footpath along the lake —
we walk the memory

getting older
yet every full moon
remains the same

chickadees in front
cheerfully sharing the news
of the safer spots

smoke from faraway
fires we can't even see —
the birds fly lower

peach season —
we dream of the feeling 
of juice dripping down

a chipmunk shrieks out
a warning as we walk past —
we scary monsters

watching the stream
of wasn't meant to be
flow on by

sweet corn season —
my mother asking us to
husk it on the stoop

the lightest rain
resurrects a childhood dream —
dodging the drops

goldfinches busy
seeking seeds and building nests —
first bird of the day

fledgling catbirds
teaching by example —
ask for what you want

willing food
to fall from the skies
over Gaza

waxing crescent moon —
fireflies swim through the dark
seeking each other

I practice resisting
the urge to give advice
as he drives away

a layer of mist
hovers just above the grass —
the day still wrapped

warm nights following
even warmer days —
leave the fans running

we find out later
that ICE has come and gone
a few blocks from here

signaling
the second half of summer —
cicada choir

I apologize
one more time for how slowly
understanding dawned

cooler mornings —
we lean into skipping
the ice in our drinks

cicadas joining
the sunset cricket chorus —
summer thickens

closing the curtains
we spy a few more fireflies 
still sending signals

orange zest and
freshly ground cardamom —
she makes her own cake

reading before bed —
the mosquito near my ear
has other ideas

tucking protest signs
in the back seat of my car —
staying ready

tiny hummingbird
fiercely shimmering
at the edge of sight

just shy of fifty.
a mighty tree has fallen,
roots ripped from the earth.

at the rise of Meeting
we discuss the messages
we most want to be heard

don't drive through water —
I hear my grandfather's voice
and go the long way

short summer nights —
the air moves aside briefly
to let us slip through

lining up our walk
so we can keep the Buck Moon
in glorious view

darkening skies —
we feel the thunder
somewhere inside

no justice, no peace —
new protestors chanting
the old chants

zinnia buds
clenched a little less tightly
first thing this morning

this, our broken world —
from the forest, a wood thrush
threads a mending song

we swim long laps
leading and drafting
by turns

lizards running through
the elementary school garden 
now that it's summer

a mockingbird pair
in near-constant flight 
feeding their nestlings

I unstick myself
from the living room couch
to look for the half moon

the mockingbird
stops on a low branch, thinking
of taking a break

last day of Pride month —
I explain to a young person
how things used to be

low temps not that low —
we try to pull some cool air
from a moonless night

warm June evening —
our guests from the West Coast
see their first fireflies

long days of waiting —
rights withering and dying
like vines in a drought

chimney swifts
swooping low as dusk comes on —
hard to look away

we spend most of June
keeping the gardens watered —
lightning bugs return

muggy heat wave —
even the squirrels 
seem bogged down by it

last vacation day —
we give ourselves permission
to miss our own bed

retirement countdown —
loosening my grip on
the days of the week

first day of summer —
the two-hour nap we drop in
doesn't even splash

summer solstice —
we unroll the day's long spool
as a bedtime tale

woke up this morning
with my mind set on freedom —
songs ringing like bells

socked in by a fog —
I can feel my mind searching
for the old landmarks

plovers taking turns 
on their shallow sandy nests —
no chicks yet this year

three killdeer chicks
scurrying across gravel —
proud parents look on

after last year's drought
a spring of lingering clouds —
puddles in puddles

unable to march
our elders sent handmade signs
for us to carry

backyard concert —
fireflies reappear
as we look away

#NoKings Day —
thinking only as far ahead
as the next protest

field-picked strawberries
with the sun's loving kiss
still warm in my hand

far from each other
we make a plan to enjoy
the full moon together

stuck under these clouds 
like a clutch of eggs
under a mother wren

more choreopsis
joins the yarrow and tickseed —
just keep walking, deer

stock-still robins
staring down into the grass
conjuring worms

lingering haze
obscuring our memory
of crisp blue skies

its tentative hop
serving as our first clue —
fledgling robin

our only child
regales us with his sweet dreams
of fatherhood

watching the garden
for the particular green of 
brand new zinnias

seeking and finding —
a catbird flings his best song
out for a loop

reading the labels —
we scour the nursery for
plants the deer won't eat

sapsucker season —
a line of small perfect holes
ringing the maple

returned from school —
we push new habits aside
to make room for him

as I drift asleep
I call old friends to mind  —
the rain falls softly

low iron levels —
my ineligibility
feeling like failure

graduation day —
stadium pigeons look on 
as mortarboards fly

peony blossoms —
we try to convince the deer
of sweeter blooms elsewhere

walking home at dusk —
acrobatic chimney swifts 
where the sky begins

just after dawn
the deer slip by to check
on our offerings

shrieks and cannonballs

displacing circling pool leaves —

summer draws near

driving into the sun 
steering from memory
to where the road was

we walk in the rain
watching the flowers
turn their faces up

morning half moon —
I neglect to notice if 
waxing or waning

nesting season —
as I walk, small blue half domes
evidence of hatching

another Sunday —
the flight of zinnia seeds
from my open hand

coordinated poison —
I wait for news of my friends'
latest chemo rounds

early morning fog —
our sense of the road ahead
reduced to guesswork

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.