between life and death
is not a border,
not a doorway
to an endless future,
but an escape
from the chains of time,
not a shattering,
but a mending,
not the end of the line,
but a circle,
Wrapped in winter white
the back garden
dreams of spring
A bit late, but, hey, it’s still Friday somewhere!
Morning comes late
crisp as November sunlight
a mouse finds a window gap
A senryu to start a new year of haiku.
Long ago, the same
half moon rising to the stars,
we went a-roving
Some songs are best as background:
Words unheard, rhythm only, harmony guessed,
Like a stray aroma, too vague to catch a grip
On a past long gone,
Like hawk-baiting wrens still thrashing
After the raptors have all gone home.
All the best birds will eat carrion, even prefer it
Leavened and tenderized, not like the fierce will
To hang together you get from raw muscle
Newly riven from the bone, still hoping
For a quickened heart to bring new blood,
Still pushing back at beak and claw.
I try to imagine the silent throat,
Its alarm stilled forever.