rummaging in the bag
for a haiku, i found instead
empty space
if it's true that
we reincarnate, then we are
our own ancestors
my kind of season: this
soft grey sky; bare twigs
just breaking into bud
change the world
one doubt at a time: ask the
impossible question
haiku? can't do.
brain needs defragmentation -
possibly new software
i load up my plate
with the future. the notice says:
all you can eat!
branches swamped with birds
the trees give voice: each twig
a-buzz with birdy news
this morning there was no world
beyond the dense white fog
which wrapped the field
primroses return: pale
at the foot of the ash tree,
snuggled in grass
leafless twigs, painted
on one side with soft dabs
of reddish-orange light
