A Palette for Tree Branches

 

A leap year Wednesday;
It is going to snow again
The day before March.

No sun in the sky--
Just the sound of the wind
And the passing car.

A snatch of voices;
Rooster crows incessantly;
Olivia moos.

 

Hanging on the fence:
Beige, single, limp and useless
A lonely work glove.

 On the gray gravel
Shiny blue wrapped newspaper--
Alien landing.

Fertile mother log
Now covered with ice and snow
Seems even more still.

Brown leaf in brown bush
Entangled there since last Fall,
Has no place to go.

Light shines through the woods
Like a fairy tale cottage.
(Does a witch live there?)

The blank laden sky--
A palette for tree branches
Spidered against it.

Would You Believe It?

Would you believe it?
After a month of spring time
Winter has returned.

Bush covered with white;
Pine trees bowing down again;
Sense of déja vu.

 

Alfred wants to play;
It's snow and he's just a kid.
His mother consents.

Field is white again;
Transformation in one night;
Sky is white and blank.

 

Shower from the tree:
Thick snow clumps fall to the road
Dissolving quickly.

 

Already melting
Snow leaves a shine on the road.
Forest is still white.

 

There is no distance;
The far mountains are concealed;
Only this blankness.

 

Poet is alone;
There are no friends to talk to;
Tree drops snow on him.

Just Fallen Sunlight

 

Sad Irish song swells
From my computer's speaker;
Mixes with the car.

 The bushes are still;
Lit barely by the pale sun;
Some patches of white.

 

Morning dove and bright sun;
Cloud rises over the trees;
A whiff of Springtime.

Shadows mark the sun
Painting road, fences and walls
As still as darkness.

  Racing down the hill
Michael rushes to the bus--
Don't be late for school.

In the dappled woods;
Not a single trace of snow;
Just fallen sunlight.

 

In the woods, a cross
Illuminated brightly,
Wired and electric.

 

 Now the crows are out
Talking in the sun bright sky
About this and that.

 In the tree's stomach

The face of a man peers out--

A face without eyes.

And the Sky Empty

  

 Buddha/snow shovel
Wait in ready position
Absolutely still.

This is the nine hundredth blog entry of Yerry Hill Haiku. Nine hundred times have I walked my usual two miles down Yerry Hill Road. Nine hundred times have I written haiku. Nine hundred times have I photographed my haiku walk. At first I tried to have all the photos connect with a specific haiku. Then I realized that the photographs could be their own haiku. And nine hundred times have I sent my work onto this blog. Nine hundred times. For the most part I get little in the way of feedback. At first that upset me. I would read my site meter to see how many people were reading this.  After all, we all want approval for what we do. But then the haiku took over and my ego took second place. I really and sincerely began not to care if anybody read this. I was doing this as consciously and creatively as I could. And so I applaud myself. If there is a Guiness Book world record for the greatest number of haiku written on the same walk, I might be a contender. But then, as younger brother once said, my motto should be, "anything worth doing is worth overdoing." 

In that spirit, I offer you the nine hundredth blog of "Yerry Hill Road Haiku." [Can't wait until I hit a thousand]. But in celebration of this event, I start and end with haiku written hours after my walk.

Nine hundred pages

Turned through the spinning seasons

Tree bends in the wind. 

 Rhododendron frost;
Gray light descends on the lawn.
No snow anywhere. 

 Crow in the gray sky;
Wood smoke rising lazily.
Faint moo from the barn.

 Forsythia mom
Swells brown, purple and pregnant
As the roosters crow.

 

Cut logs in the woods
Have been there for many years
Sitting--dissolving.

Absence of crow cries
Makes the woods seem more silent
And the sky empty.

Hanging in mid air
Dead branches don't reach the ground--
A suspended fall.

  

Over dry stream bed
A little log foot bridge lies
To keep fairies dry.

 

Gray, brown, rain dim day,

Yet nothing falls from the sky;

I am in limbo. 

 

Fading to Whisper

 

Hummingbird still  hangs
Transparent in the window;
Seen through--sees nothing.

Humming is inside;
Cold still silence is outside;
I am in between.

 

White lines in the sky
Connect the gray leaden clouds,
Then they fade away. 

 

 Swirling piece of wood
Lies next to parallel boards--
A trash heap sculpture.

 

Wind and clouds playing
Shifting patterns in the sky;
Shadows on the ground.

 

 Newly cut branches
Do not hang over the road
(That's why they were cut)

Faces in the clouds
Move swiftly in the loud wind
Dissolving quickly.

 

The wind is rising,

Bellowing in the forest;
Fading to whisper.