it was all a tease    03/16 13:08:57

After yesterday's
promise of nascent spring, the
snow has returned here.

After yesterday's
beguiling song of rebirth
lured me from my bed,

After yesterday's
morning songs of returning
feathered summer guests,

After yesterday's
earth felt soft beneath my step,
the first time in months,

After yesterday's
bright sun and warmish winds kissed
me right before dusk,

today winter has
returned, with a mean cackle
and a white blanket.

Today winter takes
it all back, shuts it all down,
closes the party.

So winter came back.                03/17 04:47:35
So there's just one thing to do:
bake gingerbread men!

BIG storm    03/17 04:51:21

Everything out
my studio windows is
now thickly frosted.

This day will be sweet.
The world is a big pastry
waiting to be licked.

Mocha    03/17 05:06:34

Mexican blown glass
holds java from Sumatra,
bold and deep red-brown.

Bitter cocoa from
Bolivia with sugar
from Hawaiian isles,

a spoon from China
and a mug from anywhere,
a little soy milk,

and now the world has
given me fuel to dream and
spin my own sunshine.

lawn ornaments!    03/22 16:35:46

At a Stop 'n' Shop,
we saw new cast iron lawn
ornaments for sale.

All were critters who
held round, red reflectors in
their small, painted paws.

The raccoon, his head
tilted upward, stood with sad,
beseeching aspect.

"Please, Mr. Drunken
Driver," he seemed to say, "please
don't hit my mailbox."

Grackles.     03/23 08:22:35

In garish black with
bold irridescence, they both
catch and repel light.

The sun has a voice.                03/23 08:27:35
It calls me from my chair, out
to the fresh spring day.

Tulips!    03/23 09:25:06

Just as I despaired,
the first leaves tentatively
peeked above the snow.

Cultivating the jungle    03/23 14:51:14

I pruned the wild rose
I've trained to wickets to keep
it from conquering
the strawberry patch beneath
which winds the rabbit warren.

A hint to me that I'm on the east coast    03/24 06:38:00

Resplendent crimson
cardinal perches on dull
black plastic planter.

New frost    03/24 06:40:48

Ground so soft and dark
yesterday at dusk is now
hard again and white.

The hard birth of spring
sends invitations to joy,
then snatches them back.

Artifact of spring    03/24 06:44:52

A fungus off the
dead birch looks like wood inside,
a mushroom outside.

Others grow up the
sides of the twiggy white trunk
like rows of seashells.

Time to bake a cake!     03/24 07:04:21

Once a year I get
to bake a cake just for me,
consulting no one.

I have only my
own tastes to accommodate;
I celebrate me.

Today it will be
the dark, rich, sour-cream-batter
devil's food from Mom.

Spice hints and thick, white
coconut-butter frosting
will make it my own.

I rejoice. I have
my life, and I will share it
down to the last slice.

bunny feet     03/25 09:12:19

Bunnies gambol through
the garden with dainty beige
paws and giant kicks.

I'll see [my irises] in June.     03/31 08:50:28

Small Siberians
will bloom in May, but the big
guys will come in June.

I have one planting
of German irises. They
didn't bloom for years.

Just as I gave up
on them, stalks came up with deep
wine-colored blossoms.

Velvet-textured and
anise-scented, they make a
fine, stately entrance.

As they fade back to
mere architectural forms,
the strawberries erupt,

and with them masses
of violets, beneath which
baby bunnies hide.

Before they all wake                04/06 04:46:40
the house rests, quiet. Only
I see the sun rise.

Only I see the
light slowly lick over each
surface, soft and quick.

Only I am here
to celebrate the birth of
each detail revealed.

These surfaces and
details define creatures and
things I love, my world.

It's like I get to
see my world being made new
each day, just for me.

The first one painted                04/06 04:50:04
into being by the sun
is my striped tomcat.

He feels the warmth like
petting, and shifts to gather
more without waking.

The sun glows through his
fur as it moves across the
window where he sleeps.

I have received it,                04/08 05:32:53
my earnest invitation
to the brand new day.

Birdsong and sunshine
send promises I yearn to
collect through windows.

Considering recklessness as an option    2004-04-08 05:42:17

A small injury
on Monday parked me on my
butt for two full days.

Today requires me
to risk reinjury. Its
perfection won't wait.

Maybe I'll frolic
'til I break again and cry
the whole wet weekend.

Maybe I'll just choose
a patch of sun to bask in
'til rain dissolves it.

pre-leaf joy #1    04/08 15:23:03

Ghostly bare branches
of Russian sage release their
scent when lightly touched.

pre-leaf joy # 2    04/08 15:27:14

Young red dicentra
arms reach for evolution
into "bleeding hearts."

Strands of heart-shaped blooms
and masses of ferny leaves
will stretch from these stumps.

pre-leaf joy # 3    04/08 15:30:32

Bumping dried hyssop
flowers still in place on dead
stalks releases scent.

Fresh lavender poofs
on stems thick with purple-veined
heart-shaped leaves come soon.

pre-leaf joy #4    04/08 15:33:44

A little raking,
and dry grass yields to dark, moist
earth hiding pale sprouts.

The colors of the
next season secretly wait
inside these small curls.

pre-leaf joy # 5    04/08 15:35:09

Hyacinth buds: crowns
of emerald rest in nests
of tender crossed swords

today...    04/08 15:38:51

Today I learned more
about my injury, pain,
and how to move on.

I also learned how
a rake and a broom can be
better than crutches.

My studio pal                04/14 05:48:45
sits and smiles, gleaming black, soft
muse in a soft chair.

I hear voices which
tell me I can't draw, but his
purring drowns them out.

bunny!    04/15 11:26:26

At midnight, you were
caught, round and ghostly, by lights
with motion sensors.

You did not care. You
grazed on fallen birdseed, then
loped to the shadows.

sleeplessness    04/18 05:42:04

Spring has come with loud
vengeance for all my whining:
night frogs and dawn birds.

It will take me time
before I can sleep through all
that loud revelry.

When fall comes, it will
take me time to learn again
to sleep without it.

birds    04/18 05:44:50

There's a party in
my trees. I have provided
all the tasty snacks.

The guests, dressed in fine
feathers, are providing all
the entertainment.

And now that it's really started...    04/19 08:57:03

It all moves so fast!
Yesterday the daffodils
were only green spears.

Today they lift their
sleepy pointy yellow heads.
Tomorrow they'll bloom.

Flowering just this
one week, they'll vanish before
the butterflies come.

priorities    04/19 09:15:20

I watch from a high
window while a rust-spotted
rabbit nibbles moss.

Suddenly, a paw
pats my arm, and a fuzzy
head butts my shoulder.

My small friend insists
I live here and now, not just
watch life through windows.

If I can't do it
for my own sake, he insists
I do it for his!

A story for the squirrel people:  (and you know who you are)    04/19 10:11:59

Yesterday, there was
a BIG noise at one of my
wide-open windows.

My studio floats
one full stair flight above and
apart from my yard,

yet when I looked up,
I saw a squirrel splayed out
on my window screen.

His white tummy pressed
up against the mesh while he
clung with tiny claws.

He was both fat and
muscular, about one-third
a cat's size, sans tail.

He'd scaled a runner
from an old tree which I've let
become a new tree,

but when he got to
the top, he didn't know where
to go, so he leapt.

I think he meant to
reach the eaves of the roof, but
he missed by a yard.

My cat was outraged.
He was awakened from his
nap on the warm sill.

He sniffed angrily --
but tentatively -- at the
intruder's belly.

Just as he meant to
lunge at the screen, which might have
brought it down, things changed.

The squirrel let go
and half fell/half-scrambled back
down to the soft lawn.

I closed the window.
The squirrel shook himself a
few times and then fled.

Today I prune. I
think this is not such a good
place for a new tree.

[clarification]    04/20 09:01:27

Alas, there was no
mystical bunny spirit
guiding me back home.

The fuzzy head and
paw belonged to my striped cat,
miffed to be ignored.

He couldn't conceive
of what could interest me
more than petting him.

He insisted that
I stop bunny-gazing and
pay him attention.

[epilogue]    04/20 09:03:45

These squirrels are quite
the acrobats. They hang by
their toes for birdseed.

They jump and flip, and
sometimes, like Sunday, they miss.
They don't seem to break.

As for kitty, well,
he got over his upset
and went back to sleep.

my new lilac bush    04/20 09:13:22

Loving them as I
do, as we all do, I had
to plant one myself.

This lot is fifty
years old, yet has no lilac
on it but this one.

It has not bloomed yet
but gardeners are patient.
It can take its time.

Meanwhile, small leaves poke
tentatively into the
spring from thin branches.

peony    04/20 09:42:37

It took eight years to
bloom. I waited and waited,
and then I gave up.

I stopped feeding it,
watering it, caring for
it altogether.

And then last summer,
it exploded. Huge red balls
of deep scent emerged.

So many and so
heavy were they that the plant
couldn't hold them up.

I reveled in this
blooming. I filled my house with
vases of my prize.

And after the bloom,
having learned my lesson, I
left the plant alone.

It died back in fall,
unceremoniously,
as its kind must do.

Now I see tall strands
of red reaching from a crown
of old cedar mulch.

Rebirth has come to
this strange plant, too. It seems to
thrive on hopelessness.

Jasmine [a dog]    04/21 10:02:18

Little fat sausage
yapping on short legs and a
long lead, so alone --

I'll come out and scratch
your belly for awhile, and
you'll squirm gleefully.

the morning circus    04/22 07:05:22

Grackle-startled, a
small bunny tears across the
lawn, scaring squirrels.

One squirrel pokes his
head into a pile of dead
grass I left last week.

Above braced hind feet,
his tail, a fuzzy question
mark, tickles the air.

The grackle, shiny
and alone, hops and pecks through
his morning task list.

window kitty    04/22 07:15:14

Window kitty sleeps
on a blue towel. He sniffs the
air without waking.

Something teases his
nose -- a memory? a dream?
prey from long ago?

Whatever it is,
soon the caress of sunshine
overpowers it.

Kitty's head sinks back
onto his crossed forepaws, and
tiny snores resume.

I missed the dawn here.                04/23 08:04:19
Rain and sleep, close companions,
washed off half my day.

Oh, and I was wrong about something else:    04/23 09:19:50

A white butterfly
found my daffodils before
the rain beat them down.

Life has returned.    04/24 08:32:40

No moment passes
without the songs of birds or
chatter of squirrels.

The skittering of
mouse feet in the walls seems much
more purposeful now.

After months of chill,
white silence, the glorious
noise of life returns.

petals    04/26 11:21:14

Yesterday, and for
two days prior, it snowed pink,
ever so gently.

The petals drifted
everywhere, dusting the
lawn, steps and walkways.

I came home late, in
rain, to find a soft pattern
dotting my slick stoop.

The rain had flattened
and glazed some errant pink disks
onto the bluestone.

They lit my footfalls --
random, translucent, ruined --
watercolor tears.

Bubbie's pickles!    04/26 11:25:43

More tempting than a
cookie jar: a glass full of
salty cucumbers!

Evidence of my
greed appears when my hand dries,
shriveled and salt-rimed.

starlings    04/26 11:43:13

White-specked black birds with
bright gold beaks wade en masse through
wet emerald lawn.

Why?    04/26 12:25:15

Two cats are fighting
over the right to lick one
spot on my big, black
nylon portfolio. Why?
What makes this spot so yummy?

with my lights off    04/26 17:22:36

the wet window screen:
a spangled veil for the pure,
deep sea that is dusk

endless clear, dark blue
above the serrated black
silhouette of trees

bunny love    04/27 06:13:26

Two rabbits gambol
in wet grass at day's end. Their
tiny noses touch.

Supposedly, the
rabbit courtship ritual
involves male urine.

Supposedly, the
boy gets the girl pregnant, then
splits, never seen again.

But in this moment,
there's no hint of that future,
just a kiss and dance.

anthropomorphosis    04/27 06:08:24

A disgruntled dove
has lodged herself -- she does not
perch -- in my sage pot.

Feathers poofed against
the cold, she uses her beak
to pick at herself.

She is wet, and cold,
and everything about
her says she hates it.

Birches    04/28 06:05:55

Trembling in the wind,
golden strands of birch blossoms
drip from bare branches.

Early summer winds
will midwife new birches when
these blooms dry to seed.

Sprouting camassia    04/28 06:15:27

Anchored together
by shared roots, new leaves flutter
as they sip the sun.

ruckus    04/29 05:26:39

Squirrels scramble up
their usual pathways through my hedge,
disgruntling grackles.

Squawking and flapping
ensues. A bird tells off the
rodent. More chime in.

"How could you? What were
you thinking? Do you think of
no one else, ever?"

The squirrel's passed on
to the rest of his day by
now, naturally.

Peace falls again once
the birds discharge their righteous
-- loud -- indignation.

The mouse    04/29 05:35:50

It was dark grey and
the size of my thumb, with small
pink feet and black eyes.

One cat carried it
twice in his mouth; another
only got to once.

Three times we saved its
life yesterday. Finally,
we caught and freed it.

We were enchanted
by its resilience, and by
its tiny cuteness.

The cats show me cold
fury today, though. (sigh) I'll
try a catnip cure.

new toys    05/01 05:57:37

I have new tools for
gardening. They cry to me,
begging to be used.

I shall not deny
them. I've been waiting long for
this day, working hard.

With giant, shiny
green telescoping loppers,
I'll coppice with glee.

I'll dance through the yard
in little red French gloves and
big black rubber boots.

I'll come back inside
dirty, sweaty, bug-bitten,
smelly -- and happy.

today's grey    05/03 09:29:24

Today's grey is calm
yet fecund, warm and full of
solace -- and secrets.

Winter greys are cold.
Fall greys are mysterious.
This grey whispers dreams.

Grey takes on quite a
different quality when
embracing spring's greens.

leaves under clouds    05/03 09:31:49

When the sun hides, leaves
glow like stained glass, every
vein like fine leading.

squirrel and grackle    05/04 08:40:20

A squirrel and a
grackle tease each other through
the short cyclone fence.

Through holes and over
poles, they chase and squawk, tracing
intricate patterns.

I can't tell whether
they're playmates or enemies.
Wonder if they know?

color change    05/05 10:33:19

This day has gone from
golden to silvery, more
quickly than my hair.

the little things    05/05 10:40:37

Today I find that
I've lived long enough to see
my hair start to grey.

So it's on my arm
and not my head. So what? It's
a start, if tiny.

And I get a small
thrill. No one ever thought I
would make it this far.

insomnia    05/06 09:15:27

Sleep flirts with my eyes,
teases the lids 'til they close,
then runs off, laughing.

hopeful eyes    05/06 09:19:17

Hoping to glimpse spring's
first oriole, my eyes pounce
on each yellow flash.

purr    05/07 06:30:34

Ecstasy is to
sit in the sun and be scratched
behind each pink ear.

Weird discovery # 478    05/10 05:27:07

Who here knew that the
"tufted titmouse" is neither
rodent nor mammal?

It surprised me to
learn a few years back that it's
a sweet, small, grey bird.

It's not a mouse and
doesn't have tits. It does have
a feather crest (tuft).

Someday I must look
up how something so cute got
such a silly name.

bath renga    05/11 10:15:56

Cool fingers of a
caressing breeze reached my skin
while I soaked in a
tub of mint-scented water
so hot all my white skin blushed.

craving wisdom    05/12 10:33:51

In a dream last night
I was asked to justify
my life on paper.

I was given forms
with questions to answer, and
a sharp new pencil.

One of the questions
was, "Have you got a Craving
Wisdom? If so, what?

Possibly you have
more than one. Explain." Then a
note defined the term.

"You know more than a
little about your Craving
Wisdom, yet want more.

You can never know
enough about it. You can
use it and teach it.

You understand it
well beyond its surface. Yet
always you crave more.

Your hunger for this
subject never ends. And all
you learn you will use."

I bit the end of
my pencil right as it turned
to cheese, then woke up.

I don't know how to
answer this question. I have
no wisdom, just hope.

Seasonal top- and basenotes    05/13 08:49:05

The air's suffused with
heavy odors of lilacs,
lawns -- and lawnmowers.

rabbit renga    05/14 07:02:27

Cinnamon specked with
chocolate glass eyes, the big
rabbit scampers through
unmown lawn, stopping only
to select blades to nibble.

chipmunk renga    05/14 07:02:49

The slow compost pile
at the back of the garden's
made of felled branches.
Chubby chipmunks waddle in
and out on complex twig roads.

grackle renga    05/14 07:03:15

A clever grackle
snatches seeds from a feeder
made for smaller birds
by standing on a nearby
branch and leaning far forward.

robin haiku    05/14 07:03:43

Robins patrol the
damp dawn and dusk lawns. Are they
sentries or farmers?

starling haiku    05/14 07:04:08

A starling carries
a single cherry blossom
to his nesting mate.

Garden purples 1    05/18 07:53:38

Camassia blooms:
clusters of lavender stars
bursting from tall stems.

Garden purples 2    05/18 07:55:41

Ground ivy carpets
the lawn with doily leaves and
purple pointillism.

Garden purples 3    05/18 07:58:37

The violet world:
masses of heart-shaped leaves cloak
dozens of tiny
faces in every hue
from chalk to mauve to midnight.

Garden purples 4    05/18 08:05:08

Hyssop seedling leaves:
maps of tiny purple veins
on green velvet hearts.

Les petits ecoliers    05/18 09:20:55

These are thick, crisp
French butter cookies melded
to chocolate slabs.

The name means "Little
Schoolboys," and a schoolboy is
embossed on each one.

My boyfriend tells tales
about them like "This year, Jacques'
term ended early."

We both giggle and
eat them up. Soon the whole box
has graduated.

gardening    05/18 14:19:26

One day, one spring, my
man looked out the window and
said, "Oh, I get it.

"You're painting with plants."
I squeezed him tight because he
really did get it.

A strange medium,
plants, for they create themselves,
over and over.

Or, perhaps there is
a god or two, and that's who
paints. (I'm just a brush.)

I neither know nor
dispute this. I doubt, but I
also deeply hope.

Meanwhile I enjoy
the gifts, whatever their source,
and love to share them.

You will know yourself.     05/19 07:25:20

You will not see the
years, yourself, and will wonder
how others see them.

What I hear most from
people truly old is the
age they feel they are.

"I don't know who this
old person everyone
talks about can be.

"I still feel [sixteen/
nineteen/twenty-five/thirty].
I'm still in my youth!"

And they tell the truth,
except the youth they now feel
surpasses the first.

Time makes them think youth
is different than it was
when they first lived it.

They don't feel afraid
to leave the house with a zit.
They don't agonize.

The youth they describe
themselves as still having is
the pure joy of life.

This is the gift of
age: perspective. We gather
substance, then let go.

In the end, if we're
lucky and not too burdened
with pain, we lighten.

So it seems to me,
listening to old folks talk
at my register.

So much to do in the garden!    05/20 09:18:57

I have new tools to
use, seeds to scatter, plants to
prep, feeders to fill.

None of this will take
care of itself, so I'll put
my coffee down now.

The sun beckons, and
the grackles scold me out of
dreams, into the day.

making baby plants 1    05/20 14:31:01

Thunbergia: sounds
like a Norse god, looks like one
long, beautiful day.

making baby plants 2    05/20 14:36:55

Dill: scented feathers
will sprout where these seeds fall -- if
birds don't eat them first.

Golden umbels in
July will assure next year's
joy from this sowing.

making baby plants 3    05/20 14:43:49

Cherry rose jewels:
smell like radishes, flirt like
prom queens, blush all day.

making baby plants 4    05/20 14:58:06

Winter's grave is a
mound of dirt and sand left on
my front lawn after
a mountain of plowed snow shoved
there carelessly's long melted.

I'll avenge myself
by planting sunflowers there.
I'll mourn neither the
winter nor the patch of green
the plow driver denied me.

I'll plant them in red,
defiant red, sexy red,
red which will court the
birds and bees and laugh at long,
cold days and big, dumb machines.

Shhh...baby plants sleeping...     05/21 06:19:12

The incubators of
my summer garden are two
small plastic boxes.

They sit quietly
on top of the piano
in my studio.

They are full of steam
from peat pellets soaked in warm
water, then seeded.

I leave the lights on
all night, hoping to coax green
baby stems upward.

forgiveness    05/22 07:39:20

There is no feeling
so delicious as getting
filthy then bathing.

Or so I thought 'til
I deeply wronged a friend, and
then was forgiven.

This is the lightness
Kundera wrote about. I
finally get it.

We burden ourselves
and each other, but love each
other anyway.

The feeling is so
clean, so light...yet it hurts
so much to need it.

faster than a speeding squirrel...    05/24 05:18:35

Chipmunks are hamsters
with racing stripes and fuzzy
little rear spoilers.

great nap    05/24 09:14:45

I slept two hours with
cats all around and dreamt of
limitless seafood.

It kept coming through
my register, one package
after another.

Huge rolls of filleted
salmon. Stuffed, cellophane-wrapped
silvery things. Hake.

Cod. Halibut. Round
bodies. Thin bodies. Cans of
sardines. Shrimp buckets.

This might have been a
dream about my job, of course.
I think it was not.

I think my mind soaked
up the fantasies of those
who slept beside me.

in the field    05/26 08:25:33

A redwing blackbird
surveys lines of bright sprouts from
atop a dead stalk.

the new crop    05/26 08:30:50

Bright green spatters cross
corrugated black soil in
diagonal rows.

rainy spring    05/26 08:33:23

Flat pewter layers
of sky hover close to dense,
wet clumps of forest.

outdoors    05/26 08:35:28

With the sky so close
and opaque, outdoors seems like
just another room.

near miss    05/27 05:58:31

Across the dark, wet
night road, a mouse scampered on
tiny silver feet.

Tartufo    06/01 12:53:06

Buttery cheese from
Italy, truffled, with a
dark rind of cake spice --

Just hard enough to
chew, just soft enough to melt
slowly on your tongue --

Slice it paper thin,
bite a pear, then feel them fall
in love in your mouth.

And another new taste    06/03 10:08:19

I wonder if I
can save some of this cheese for
my boyfriend to eat.

I wonder if I'll
devour it alone, then have
to run to the store.

Creamy with blue veins,
gorgonzola dolce melts
from tongue into throat.

One taste demands I
take another, salty and
sour, too quickly gone.

Cladrastis    06/07 10:07:17

Saturday, all at
once, my other favorite
tree came into bloom.

"Come to the window,"
I said. "You must breathe this." He
leaned toward the screen.

Wisteria-like
white panicles dripped petal
dots onto the lawn.

The grass became a
garment painted by Klimt, mad
with rich, flat detail.

The backyard, bright green
against a birch-colored sky,
was now a scent bowl.

He shut his eyes and
smiled. "It smells like the South," he
told me, delighted.

This one tree, held by
an iron bar where it split
long ago, did this.

This one tree with a
dull name -- Yellowwood -- transformed
the north to the south.

seen on the ground while walking to work (1)    06/08 08:11:26

undulating chain
of dots and lines, legs and spheres:
the caterpillar

seen on the ground while walking to work (2)    06/08 08:12:35

The squiggle wiggled,
a slender ooze of green paint
alive on asphalt --

just a small worm in
a world of big feet and lots
of birds seeking lunch.

a monarch or some other fritillary.    06/08 09:48:18

Fritillaries are
the butterflies with the Art
Nouveau stained-glass wings.

Fledgling (5-7-5-7, just for kicks)    06/15 07:28:24

Disheveled and a
bit confused-looking, the first
starling fledgling perched
atop my untrimmed yew bush.

He looked like he'd been
awakened from a long dream
and like he wasn't
very happy about it.

An adult body
with still a few blood quills on
his wings, and still a
few baby feathers fluffing --

A yellow adult
beak, opening and closing
as a baby bird's
does when he begs to be fed --

Both discontented
and relieved by the presence
of a parent who
made a point of staying close --

Undeniably
surly, yet still hopelessly
cute, this bird child was
adolescence incarnate:

Confused, demanding,
hungry, not ready to fly
just yet, but poised on
the brink of transformation.

Over the creek    06/17 12:11:58

From lash-soft black wings
hang electric green needles
darting to and fro.

They seem elated
to be in their new bodies,
this year's dragonflies.

frustration    06/18 06:25:02

I brought an armful
of sin-coloured peonies
in before the rain.

They stood in a vase
on the CD rack, scenting
the house like roses.

Hosting small lives from
outdoors -- beetles, spiders, ants --
they drove my cat mad.

He'd squat below them
and stare up, looking for a
way to get to them.

He wanted to eat
them. He wanted to chase their
tiny residents.

He wanted to knock
them over and make a mess,
then fake innocence.

I would come home from
work to find on the floor strange
music selections.

Obviously, some
sad, failed attempts to scale the
"tower" had been made.

This drama lasted
a week. Then a light rain of
red petals began.

My poor round cat was
quite nonplussed. What he'd sought all
week fell at his feet.

Where was the fun in
that? He sniffed once the withered
treasure and moved on.

All at once it seems
he recalled other things to
watch, and naps to take.

baby bunny!     06/21 03:36:39

Through the evergreen
hedge, I barely glimpse him, a
nibbling grey handful.

His ears are clearest,
glowing pinkly in the dawn,
smaller than my thumbs.

rhubarb    06/21 09:28:59

A friend cultivates
a rhubarb plant for hoped-for
future generations.

Someday when she has
children, she'll make them pie from
this now tender plant.

Time passes, and the
plant thrives, but still no husband
and no children yet.

The future summers
she dreams of are flavored with
rhubarb and berries.

The plant she protects
may survive her dreams unless
things change for her fast.

at the concert (1)    06/23 04:30:20

Laura takes the stage.
She tunes her fiddle with a
smile, like she's missed it.

She nearly glows, as
though she isn't complete when
she isn't playing.

at the concert (2)    06/23 04:30:54

Julia dances
when she plays. You can read her
interpretation
on her face, feeling her song
even if you can't hear it.

the concert venue    06/23 04:36:41

We sit in a bare
New England church, listening.
The sky outside dims.

The benches are hard,
and the interior is
punishingly plain.

Above shoulder-high
cream-colored wainscoting rise
the palest blue walls.

The ceiling is blue, too,
and there is one fine stained
glass chapel window.

A private gift, the
window can't be seen except
from certain front pews.

Jesus stands holding
a lamb, flanked by apostles
I don't recognize.

A dove dives through a
rayed halo in its own pane
above Jesus' head.

As the sky darkens,
Jesus and his apostles
slowly disappear.

Only the dove stays
visible against the dark
light of nine o'clock.

The other windows
are hundreds of small clear panes
set in wooden frames.

Straight rows of panes climb
up to the ceiling painted
like a sunlit sky.

In all this plainness,
with just one jewel, I think
of eternity.

I think of a time
when only this church will still
be here, empty, plain.

I think of the time
when it will crumble into
dust, its glass broken.

When we leave, we walk
down a red carpet toward doors
open to dark blue.

A car headlight points
into the door. We walk toward
it, nearly blinded.

first sight of the morning    06/23 04:38:32

Amongst the leaves, with
sun behind them, insects glow
like motes of clear glass.

splashing 1    06/25 08:29:07

Bright finches splash in
potholes which have filled with rain,
impromptu birdbaths.

splashing 2    06/25 08:31:53

I never saw the
fish, just the way it broke the
surface, hunting bugs.

splashing 3    06/25 08:38:58

A still black pond grew
when rain fell and brought down white
flowers to trim it.

The water mirrored
the citrus-scented tree blooms
in shining darkness.

A stray petal fell
into the pool, breaking the
glass for an instant.

A week later, the
pool had dried away, and the
blossoms all shriveled.

I walked through all, the
temporary pond, the blooms,
and the dust after.

Bam!    07/02 08:12:42

My sleep was fractured
by early morning thunder
rupturing dark skies.

It was so close. It
really did sound like two guys
wiggling metal sheets.

My striped cat fears it
and always comes to me to
protect him from it.

This deeply touches
me, that someone I love thinks
of me as safety.

I cannot, of course,
protect anyone from the
whims of elements.

But I'm happy my
arms are warm and strong enough
to feel like shelter.

an advantage of aging    07/02 09:24:32

My brown cat has been
with me seventeen years and
is now very deaf.

He sleeps through all loud
noises, save tummy rumbles
signalling meal times.

Saddam Hussein on TV yesterday    07/02 09:20:02

He stabbed the air with
a Papermate ballpoint to
punctuate his speech.

He is so foreign
to me, in every way,
ultimately strange.

I can't imagine
for an instant what it must
feel like to be him.

Yet I've held cheap pens
just like that one, and know how
they feel clutched tightly.

And that's what they mean.    07/04 13:14:18

You can revisit
a place, but not your time there,
except in your heart.

My junior high was
sold and made a private prep
school, and that's not all.

They gave my high school
a new name just a few years
after I left it.

The trees I grew up
climbing have been cut down; their
roots damaged plumbing.

I dream of my home,
of my mother's collection
of purple roses.

It's all clear when I
sleep. It no longer exists
in the awake world.

My friends and I, with
our skinned knees and xylophone
skateboards, are all ghosts.

Our anxiety
haunts the schools, our games haunt
the hills of our streets.

Sure, Palos Verdes
is still there, but nothing that
I knew still knows me.

July 4 garden celebration    07/04 13:18:47

Monarda mirrors
our day with static scarlet
bursts atop green poles.

The bees feast. This is
their picnic at the beach. Waves
lap the birdbath's rim.

blooming hosta    07/11 03:42:14

purple tipped tendrils
tentatively unfurl toward
the sun on green wands

wild carrot    07/11 03:42:37

tight umbel baskets
unfold into delicate
flower galaxies

Running Rabbit black licorice     07/11 03:44:10

small gummy bunnies
as black as my kitty's nose --
salty, sticky, sweet

broccoli     07/11 03:44:42

sweet green flowers sponge
up butter from the pan, then
tickle my whole tongue

achillea    07/11 03:45:07

clots of goldenrod
impasto stippling above
feathery green leaves

pepé le peeeeeeeew    07/11 03:52:12

Il a laissé une
carte de visite parfumée
pour quelqu'une chez moi.

Fermez les fenêtres!
Qui veut recevoir un tel
message si mauvais?

Chicory    07/15 05:49:28

Chicory blooms by
the side of the road, blue wheels
on long, ratty stems.

At night, the scruffy
foliage below fades back
into the darkness.

You just see crowds of
free-floating, moon-tinted disks
staring as you pass.

glacier blue    07/20 08:41:39

Deep in each crevasse,
the cold light glows more blue than
sky or sea or gem.

Red and green    07/27 04:54:21

Hummingbirds sip at
scarlet monarda flowers
larger than themselves.

Butterfly envy    07/27 04:54:58

South of the highway
is another zone, where the
flowers bloom sooner.

Butterflies drip from
blazing spires of liatris.
Bees mob sunflowers.

In my yard, these are
still just stalks with tight green buds.
I wait, envious.

Russian sage (tanka/choka...something like that)    07/27 05:05:28

Perovskia blooms
in lavender specks. Coming
from a cold place, it
has learned not to spend too much
on frivolous artifice.

With small silver-grey
feathery foliage, slim
woody stems, and the
tiniest of blossoms, it
gently makes itself pretty.

When the feathers of
connoisseur hummingbirds or
the calloused fingers
of a gardener brush it,
warm scent melts into the air.

Birds and bees adore
it, though it doesn't seem an
obvious choice. Its
little buds hold sweet treats, though,
for the slenderest of tongues.

Outliving countless
flashier plants, it's hardly
a hidden treasure.
Everything it is can
quite readily be perceived.

Muscle Car    07/30 09:34:30

Seventy if a day,
the tiny white-haired lady
drove a black Trans Am.

She peered over the
wheel like my grandma used to,
driving Cadillacs.

Café Veranda    07/30 09:41:34

Jasmine and a whiff
of the sea, miles inland, on
a summer morning --

Women's perfumes and
the scents of freshly washed skin,
baked goods, tobacco --

Deep in a stately
suburb drenched with history,
Volvos, exclusions --

A warm, ten-minute
vacation stolen from a
too-busy weekday.

As seen on TV    08/02 06:01:10

reflections on glass
buildings: ghosts of city lives
lighting up the night

tiny    08/02 06:01:40

spider on my watch
smaller than each numeral
millimeter life

That old argument...    08/02 06:03:16

The glass is half full
of whatever you have put
into it yourself.

The glass is empty
of some things you expected
others to put in.

Two weeks ago (1)    08/05 10:00:11

We heard French music
from the court of the Sun King
one hot Tuesday night.

A tall soprano
in a shiny prom dress sang
like a nightingale.

Two violins hummed
the forest at night around
her into being.

This dry, blank, blue space --
bland Episcopalian --
wasn't made for this.

We held our breath for
beauty, and our own time and
place fell fast away.

Two weeks ago (2)    08/05 10:00:45

Prematurely grey,
bespectacled, sparkling with
light body glitter,
the theorbo player was
a big surprise to us all.

She flirted with us
ever so slightly before
teasing cool deep woods
walked through in ancient times from
the strings of her instrument.

Two weeks ago (3)    08/05 10:03:22

Platform-sandalled toes
peeked from her long skirt, and moist
tendrils framed her face.

Her demeanor and
elocution had said "First
the mall, then the beach."

The first violin
sonata ever written
then sang from her bow.

She'd looked and talked like
a high school girl, then played with
an adult's passion.

This week (1)    08/05 10:03:50

music from old Spain
-- Arab, Jewish, Catholic --
on a hot, hot night
performed in a cool blue room
made for alabaster hymns

This week (2)    08/05 10:04:17

The soloist wore
a pointed beard, scarlet vest
and one gold ear stud.

He took the pulpit
to sing in Spanish of a
long-dead Jewish king.

This week (3)    08/05 10:04:56

Wednesday Addams all
grown up sang in Arabic
with a soft alto.

Younger than me and
in no language I know, she
became my mother.

She sang old words of
one man's passion, but her voice
transcended the words.

Her voice cradled us,
soothed us, channeled the old lie
that everything's fine.

I felt five thousand
years of women trying to
give hope in the dark.

This week (4)    08/05 10:05:23

She was sweet, round and
dimpled, with a small bird's voice.
Pearl-colored, she trilled
that she was "black and comely,"
and convinced us while she sang.

laundry room echoes    08/06 03:32:09

Downstairs, overhead --
rumpitabumpitabump --
kitty cats chase ghosts.

late August    08/24 07:24:26

a nip of autumn
ineffable wistfulness
long days ebb like tides

A sacrifice to squirrels, perhaps    08/24 07:40:34

It's still to be seen
whether you will be allowed
to bloom red for me.

Of a whole packet
of seeds, but one sprouted in
the dross of winter.

Slender, you stretch up
through shade taking over your
space as summer dies.

You bear a tight bud
of green-haired petals, itself
a green sun, waiting.

It's still to be seen
whether there will be any
more to you than this.

I shall see it now,
your fine, immature beauty,
gift of this moment.

sailing    08/24 07:48:45

catamaran joy
intimacy with the sea
each wave a caress

complementary colors    08/24 07:51:10

blue-violet sea
sparked with sunlight, mirrored in
my mimosa glass

low contrast Saturday    08/24 08:03:50

I sketch the day with
light pencil the color of
air on white paper.

Fog smudges the coast.
Grapes grow without a blush as
sailboats fade in mist.

The sun has stayed in
bed, leaving me to dream of
what it's left undone.

August leaves the stage    08/31 12:26:52

Days before the end,
green leaves turn sherbet colors,
spiting the warm front.

Seen in the hall    08/31 12:41:57

A bright batik shawl
emblazoned with loggerheads
hangs over our door.

It ripples in an
air-conditioner-made breeze,
a soft blue cloth sea.

The creek, revisited    09/07 19:01:22

Above drowned paper,
a lone dragonfly alights
on a turning leaf.

scent memory II    09/09 08:15:45

tearing dill for fish,
haunted by mom's pink kitchen
and summer pickles

headlights    09/20 20:12:43

two does and one buck --
three grey nibbling roadside ghosts --
lips on leaves, then gone

after damp    10/05 12:50:22

season of mirrors
pooling blackly in gutters,
stilled rainfall shining

red fall    10/05 13:00:31

Scarlet leaves caught in
rocks beneath olive water
glow like still, flat fish.

Scarlet leaves caught in
green blades by the sandy berm
flutter like paper.

Scarlet leaves caught in
stands of dry weeds twine their stems
'round dead plant fingers.

Scarlet leaves caught in
the branches of their own trees
strain forth like prayer flags.

Scarlet leaves caught in
my vision, one at a time,
burn after they fade.

contagion    10/09 07:13:30

The color torch is
passed, tree to tree, limb to limb,
leaf tip to leaf tip.

Green fades strangely to
red, its opposite, which was
always there, hiding.

It happens like a
spark-lit fire. Suddenly, the
whole forest blushes.

birch copse    10/10 11:27:13

Daubs of gold leaf float
from fine burnt sepia stems,
decorating air.

invasion    10/14 09:57:30

Until today, I
could just see orange flashes
in peeks through the hedge.

Now fall's hopped my fence,
turning birch and yellowwood
leaves gold with its kiss.

Cowabunga, baby    10/22 09:53:23

Golden slips of leaves
struggle to surf cold westbound
gasps of autumn wind.

easy metaphor (5-7-7-7-5, just for kicks)    10/27 14:18:49

down the smooth dark creek
inexorably away
gently float the bright leaves like
untethered souls departing
in an endless stream

lunar eclipse 1    10/27 19:56:47

red blushes the moon
through a veil of shadows cast
by a troubled earth

lunar eclipse 2    10/27 19:57:55

our thoughtless orbit
plunges our neighbor into
a phase of shadows

lunar eclipse 3    10/27 20:01:08

watching the moon turn
dark far above our heads, we
felt ankle pressure

looking from sky to
earth, we found another large
orange sphere close by

a pumpkin-colored
tabby, maybe pregnant, or
just fat, rubbed our legs

veils    11/08 11:03:24

A sparkling curtain
of dust motes hangs from a crack
in dark draperies.

it's back...    11/13 06:46:50

Snow light silvers the
autumn detritus still on
my coffee table --

shiny coffee cups,
plastic bags full of wool yarn,
a leaf from the yard,

earrings discarded
after some evening's long shift,
catalogs and magazines --

just yesterday, the
stuff of autumn projects, work
and dreams still going,

all of it transformed
into the stuff of winter
by one early snow.

the fate of the red ones    11/23 06:12:13

scattered Swedish fish
faded pink by sun and rain
dot the asphalt path

Plight of the winter squirrel!    11/30 19:36:10

Poor hungry squirrels!
Eat all my crocuses. I'll
plant some more next fall.

Eat my daffodils,
my tulips, my spring delight.
You are my joy, too.

second snow melt    12/07 07:34:16

one brown leaf amid
dark, bare branches, each trimmed with
its own crystal drop

**********

My year at the Haiku Hotel long ended, I have continued to write haiku, of course, and to play with all the related forms. I'll post the results here, but without dates or details.

White-bellied hawk dives
through the ice-clean blue to kill,
sup, and fly again.

Paper-thin golden
hands applaud cerulean
sky, pleased and blushing.

Years of passing this
tree, and only today, this
day, I must touch it.

A thought-free gesture,
over at once, it brings strange
consequences.

My neighbor watches
from her curtained living room,
New England wary.

In love with my day,
I want to reassure her.
I smile; she doesn't.

How I long for her
to see that I threaten to
take nothing from her.

I have no designs
upon her tree, her leaves, life
or security.

I'm just singing to
myself each gilt paper leaf,
each flying bird,

and the blue sky.

a swift-billowing shawl
of feathered bodies
rushes the air, looping curlicues
now fat, now thin
in vanishing calligrapher's ink

icicle curtain --
thick, sharp and dripping -- closely
veils my view of spring

Just where the road curves,
a low-crossing flock of geese
flies from summer's end.

fall perennials
on sale, two for twelve dollars --
sleepy bees, no charge

Tender honeybee
embraces sweet white blossom,
spends his fall on love.

Flames lick green leaf-clouds.
Soon all will be engulfed in
crimson, and then gone.

by Sara, copyright © 2003, 2005, all rights reserved