midnight fireworks —

we find ourselves back

at the beginning

back from our trip

the birds here at home

sounding new again

fiftieth birthday —

I feel the gravel slide

under my wheels

a queztal’s cry

sets us all to looking —

who will see her first?

just after sunset

between the birds and the frogs

a patch of silence

we try again

to imagine these mountains

before roads

Costa Rican Christmas —

we pause to let a crab

cross the road

a trail in the sand

where a child dragged her towel

for emphasis

sorry, snail!

now I see you are still

using that shell

approaching footsteps —

my heart still jumps up

at the thought of you

we fill the long night

with our questions and stories —

mid-winter Solstice

(This will be my last haiku here for a little bit... but not because I'm not writing! Just taking a step away from the digital life as the year turns over. Please consider taking this opportunity to poke around in the archives... you could even leave me a - *gasp* - comment!)

choking

on the world’s exhaust —

December lilac buds

its worth reflected

only in his children’s eyes —

grandfather’s old chair

three pigeons

arguing over their places

under the bridge

happier still

when a second voice joins in —

early morning song

she asks again

where it is we’re going —

early Alzheimer’s

you lift your eyes

to follow the hawk in flight —

I watch you instead

our clothes clinging

as we come in from the fog —

how will it taste?

keys on the counter

as we pull the locked door shut —

geese fly on ahead

mid-December —

one hawk watching for movement

on the edge of flight

left on the platform

as he steps aboard —

brakes releasing

my apology

lodged to the left of your heart —

another near miss

our to-do list

with being lazy together

right up at the top

remembering

to feel the sun on my face

as the days grow short

still waiting

for the hot cocoa to cool —

you pull me closer

New Haircut

(When did he get so grown up?)

holiday baking —

I think of my grandmother

standing at the sink

blade by blade

our lawn going to frost

while we sleep

dementia —

the azalea leaves give up,

turning gold at last

the day’s last sunlight

poured out over the lake  —

scarcity. abundance.

early December —

a groomed field of winter wheat

where the corn once stood

looking away —

how my father taught me

to see the stars

holiday baking —

but nowhere for me to send

your biscotti now

forgetting

the sound of rain

until it returns

first real frost —

waiting for my windows to

let me see again

scanning the sky

for the star that will release

this wish I’m holding

old enough now

I don’t need the recipe —

apple pie season

two decades on

the wonder of you

still singing in me

he teaches me

waves also make a sound

in retreat

we wake to the sound

of water lapping the hull —

at anchor, at sea

when your boy asks

if you wanted a girl —

delay of bedtime

for a moment

as the wind shuffles the clouds

just a few stars

he’s holding

an empty bird’s nest —

treasure

there was one gold leaf

this morning, on the drive in

that headed back up

my fingers trailing

over the side as you row —

irresistible

remembering

Elizabeth Bishop’s fish

still trailing old weights

delayed migration —

we and the birds wondering

did we wait too long?

smoke clinging to this

landscape of burning leaf piles —

what have we wrought?

the long drive home

re-imagining

your wink

old life in boxes —

when has the waning crescent

been this thin and sharp?

first frost

finally silencing

the mosquito’s whine

looking everywhere

for storm windows and finding

paper wasps instead

spring sun —

the red faces of those

caught unprepared

every fallen stick

seems crooked as I look

for a straight one

one rainstorm later

and all I can think is how

I want the leaves back

all work forgotten

as the day’s first sunlight

bounces off the lake

beneath the willow

was a space I claimed as mine

until I met you

before wind and rakes

leaves still where they dropped

in bright circles

late night clouds —

the stars move slowly away

from where we left them

all along the road

slowly ground down to flour —

this year’s acorns

wondering why

we can’t just leave him alone —

teenager’s lament

this evening's windfall —

as the temperature drops

you reach for my hand

fishing around

in the sock drawer —

winter work

stuck windows —

we practice

asking for help

inviting

a fairy princess

to take una mas

remembering

when the pumpkin patch

seemed endless

heading to bed

I think of the skunks

starting their day