the afternoon sun is strong
even though apple blossoms are weeks away;
only the slightest hints of early-green
appear on the knoll horizon
smoke drifts from the pile of collected brush
as my father points out streaks of grey
in the stubble on my cheek
—
i always wonder if there is more to come
The kitchen window is streaked and spotted
on the outside from months-gone
summer rains.
The air has since turned frigid;
small birds flit & dance on the barren bush
just beyond the sill.
Inside, I stand resting
in the sun that streams through
just above the old porcelain sink.
The dishes are finished
and last wisps of steam rise;
the children are occupied with holiday gifts
as I forget for a moment
everything isn’t all right.
—
Another notebook fragment from December finally coalesces.
crickets departed —
crows accompany leaves
falling through darkness
rough stones and moss
made slick by humid air
gather fallen leaves —
unsure footsteps and silence
grace summer’s indecision
—
I have typically posted tanka accompanied, and inspired, by an photograph. The image here is in my mind only, placed there on a late summer, quiet afternoon walk through the woods, unaccompanied by my camera or technology of any sort. I was disappointed at first not to be able to capture the moment…yet the words can do it justice, and the feat is unattainable in any event.
yellow moon rises
through thickness of air
ambition withers
The arrangement can only be made
from what is there in the garden
among the spring’s fresh birth.
Insistent rain enfolds
petals and blossoms—
without hindering—
accompanies hushed birds
and muffled traffic sounds,
distinct only in retrospect.
Last summer’s basket
in which I would have laid each piece
hasn’t turned up.
It’s been laid aside somewhere,
so I hold the fresh-clipped stems in my mouth.
Some taste bitter,
others earthen and whole.
Outside a robin hops
from a crusted snow pile
to the matted spring grass.
I stand at the window and watch,
while the echo of quiet play
mixed with soft humming
drifts out of the nearby bedroom
and into the hallway,
coming from a son
who is supposed
to be getting dressed —
but who has found absorption
in a long-forgotten toy.
I wish I could move
to see him,
but I don’t dare
stir the light
or sound the floorboards.
My body is warmed by the sun
before a shouted question
from downstairs intrudes
and the moment drains away.
the shallow stream skirts
softened edges of a field —
emptiness surrounds
steady retreat on a path
through morning grey and stillness
the old sentry watches
over mist and heavy water
weathered by time yet
outlasting the faded road
no escape from loneliness
breathless light struggles —
long shadows arrive early
in the day’s passing
—
I feel like I’ve been writing around the edges recently. Circling around words that need to be expressed but aren’t ready to be committed. My notebook is littered with opening lines and untitled strings of paragraphs that don’t quite go together. This haiku managed to emerge complete, perhaps a part of circling inward. It is, in any event, one step next to another step, and what this moment holds.
bussokuseki 