Friends, today is my #haikuversary! 

(I have been posting at least one haiku I can stand to share here every day for TEN 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 Twitter, where I am @butwait. I was traveling most of the day today, so we can push this all to tomorrow, no rush.)

• 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.

snowy fields stubbled
with the stalks of last year's crop —
tractors still in barns

hold the kite up high
and I'll get ready to run —
touching the sky

hard frost warning —
we wonder how to explain
this to the tulips

mid-morning squall  —
for one thrilling moment we're 
inside the snow globe

a hole in the sky,
dampened feathers underfoot —
a hawk came calling

sunrise reminder
that the deer were here first —
headless stalk garden

we can almost see
the view from their first walkup —
grandmother's stories

each wave carrying
the unfolding gift of self —
its removal, too