November 2017

Covered bridge
the wind and I shelter
in its twilight

Drawing my eyes
to the burning bush
a pheasant

More blowing leaves
more blue sky
Indian summer


She would be 70 . . .
photo of the sister
who died young

September 2017

Two newly emerged Monarch butterflies on a hanging plant at Woodslawn Farm. September 8, 2017

September 9, 2017

A few timely haiku from the new book I am putting together, “A Drift of Birdsong.”
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Seeing through
the empty chrysalis
a child’s wonder

Hurricane threat
the name of the first-grade friend
who cut off my bangs

Hurricane cleanup
in a large puddle
one blue boot

Pointing out a star . . .
on my wrist
the fan of mosquito wings

A backyard drainage swale in Stuart, FL fills with overnight rains from the soon-to-be-arriving Hurricane Irma. September 10, 2017

A frog in Crystal Springs, FL awaits Hurricane Irma on a front porch. September 9, 2017.

June 2017

More haiku from the new book I am putting together, “A Drift of Birdsong.”
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Longest day
the child rolls and rolls
down the gentle slope

Ball and bat -
cracking a window
literally

Through three songs
puzzling me
the catbird

Honeybee harvest
round and round
a ring of yellow roses

Remembering

Herbert George Purington
September 22, 1924 - March 28, 2016

The grandfather's whistle
in the antique apple tree
last year's oriole

Stonewall builder -
on the backs of his muscled hands
thick veins meander

Mending fences -
long chat with the neighbor
whose cows are in our corn

Family Farm

On his birthday
the white-haired man who is my father
passes around
a wedge of tree trunk –
wide growth rings, narrow ones

On his way
to somewhere far
the man with white hair
brakes for a turtle on its way
to somewhere near

Faces I Might Wear

The Climbing Tree

A view of the silos, barns, and house, with the ancient Climbing Tree in the foreground. Photo by Jim on February 17, 2017.

February 2017 Tanka

The phone lines
that should carry
your voice
sag with ice
this unfinished scarf,
I never could get
I the tension right

This warm kitchen
and a fragrance of
herbs
as familiar
as the pattern of
apples
on my
my grandmother's
apron

A perfect storm
snowflakes fall
straight down
indoors, outdoors
the balance of this
day
somehow shifting

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