haiku – Page 3 – tinywords

perched at the tip of summer red-winged blackbird

garden hose a silver arc reaches the last cabbage

box spring new sheets old lovers

in the park pigeons peck in front of empty benches

white water rafting we spin around our laughter

zen garden one rock out of place

garden wall behind the snail its long noon shadow

ceiling mirror between screams I see my child being born

sun-baked dust– the one thing moving is my neighbour’s tongue

a crossword puzzle side by side my parents

flurries of willow fluff seven ducklings scatter among the reeds

wind through the pines your hair falling off my shoulder

alone tonight the stillness between stars

it happens every year but still the woods filled with birdsong

long summer the smell of rain new again

tornado siren, even the stars take shelter

summer’s end— I let the thimbleberry rest on my tongue

liquid sky . . . a steel bucket hits the well water

mossy boulder the softness and hardness of life

the skip of a skipping stone alpine swifts

abbey ruins through a window frame a tuft of wild barley

pink moon i am asked again why i’m not a mother

Grey dawn climbs the sky bird over bird.

moving day— untangling bookmarks from the brass doorknobs

moving through the summer moon slow swell

attention standing tall in a stiff breeze ixias

thunderbolt--- eyes light up in the pine tree

night paddling the land blacker than the sea

where creek willows weave the sunlight ducklings

falling rain grandma goes upstairs step-step

a new path— little bones around the fox’s den

frost on the furrows up to the vanishing point— sunrise

shallow stream we cross a bridge of stars

immigration line a red thread caught in her teeth

he thinks again of turning leaves her hands

autumn leaves lipstick red her brand new path to herself

backstroke the sound of my mother’s womb

platelets— the trip we were planning to plan pub. credit: Modern Haiku 41:2 (2010)

light falling everywhere in its own place — summer’s end (haiga)

migrating geese— wind flaps the scarecrow’s empty sleeves

leaves changing a language i can’t fully grasp

home from the city– waiting at the station Orion

milkweed leaving everything behind

my journey begins: a few snowflakes flutter in the breeze

airplane window mountains move slowly past

Slime trail— glancing back at the glinting

just because the sky is navigable— thistledown

moonlight on aster i take the long way home

the climb over barbed wire… trumpet vine

just past mauve paddling hard for a dark shore (haiga)

loneliness the boat finding its own way

thoughts unspool with the white line road trip

straight furrowed fields all the things I wish I could unsay

across the blue dome of the great basin mustang’s eye

no Perseids yet— just the Milky Way and a million stars

half the sky a deeper blue mid-life birthday

the road home each bend unwinding an earlier version

anniversary on his bedside table a thin film of dust

jet lag she unravels his half-finished sweater

across his face the light that slowly moves across his field

we needn’t talk — the night whispers tales long forgotten

The many notes of the falling rain, all in tune. (haiga)