Fridays piling up
Like migrants at the border
The poet snoring
Friday haiku 136
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Fridays piling up
Like migrants at the border
The poet snoring
A sunlit patch in winter
the wild song of geese
returning
I was in the midst of travel commotion last week, and missed posting my Friday haiku, so I’m doubling up today.
North is south this year
confused,
geese stay put
In a deep corner
of my self
a patch of soil
A plane touches down
At Sana airport
Taxis past broken lives,
Dead dreams,
Opens its bay and accepts
A stream of humanity
And departs
It’s an old river
Its drainage is ambition,
Pride, retribution.
It has flowed in torrents
Since all of time
See, here, on this map
The deep gorge it cuts
Through history
Its course so familiar
It is forgotten
By every new generation
Some seek power, wealth
Others, only refuge.