showing off some shine

in this end-of-summer dusk —

eggplant

lying in our bed

listening to the crickets

check on each other

morning bike ride

past a grate and rushing sounds

of last night's rain

fifty years later

my father remembers

a smaller “we” than mine

so small, in the end,

to have caused all that fuss —

uninvited bat

(HT @sassafrasmama)

caught in the thistles

at the side of the road —

fading smell of skunk

sometimes we don’t know

the last time we do something

that it’s the last time

(for M.R.)

not understanding
but giving in anyway —
the urge to kneel

friendly raccoons

once again checking our trash

for treasure

double yellow line —

slowly driving the road

that always floods

a glint of summer

caught for a few moments

in the spider’s web

August roadside stand —

each of us counting up

how much corn we’ll need

the beautiful veer

of a startled jay seeing

its own reflection

(for AMJ)

peach season —

ants celebrating the juice

dripping from my arm



Update: My friend Wendy responded by writing a haiku of her own... and the next night she made THIS:

Wow. [wipes drool off keyboard]

she wants to show me
the promise of blossoms
before they open

(for T.F.)

we know, yet forget —

the squash will take over

our entire yard

honeymoon album —

he remembers the pictures

that didn’t come out

(for my parents)

just-picked strawberries —

how else to imagine

the taste of sunshine?

our purple phlox

curved almost to the earth

by this morning’s rain

change of season —

the boy moves ahead to lead

the family bike ride

the shadows

welcome their monsters home —

cancer’s return

(for I.Z.)

opening windows —

welcoming humidity

to hear the crickets

instead of songs

she hears the breaths between —

emphysema



(for my Tante Dorit)

Little D

So you know how in books the pirates' parrots are always hanging out on their shoulders?

Turns out it's a thing.

And look who's home! We are very pleased to welcome Django to our family. And yes, we have thought about this.

this moon so new

a note on my calendar

is all I see of it

stories so small

that only the two of us

remember

late afternoon

flip turns in the lap lane —

I open my eyes

watching birds in flight

until they’re too far to see —

the girlfriend who left

a pair of cardinals

checking in with each other

across the garden

stones we collected

together (for their beauty)

gone dry and plain now

bedtime crickets

busily counting something

uncountable

birdsong beginning

just before the clouds

let down their last drops