Only the Woods are Singing

 

World is white again;
Winter has returned once more
On the heels of Spring.

 

 

Pine trees bowing down,
Pay obeisance to the snow.
They are motionless.

Chicken and the cow
Munch together in the snow;
Breakfast must go on.

Gray sky full of snow;
Blue ribbon on fallen pole;
Howling of a dog.

Sultry snow flakes fall,
Swiftly turning to water;
Hardly a blizzard.

 

The forest is white;
Thick pine tree shade gives darkness;
Plane hovers high above.

 

In the gray stillness
Only the woods are singing
Ultrasonic songs.

 

The tree creature frowns;
He doesn't get vacation
From watching the road.

Flying Down the Hill

  

Faint rat a tat tat--
Woodpecker or machine gun?
There's no sign of smoke.

 Sitting at table,
Getting ready for my walk;
New and familiar.

 

  

Like sprouting white hair
Birch rises above the barn;
Both venerable.

 Flying down the hill
Miabella to the bus--
Last morning freedom.

 

Ancient dry stream bed
Marked now by patches of light
That flow in its path.

 

In the morning light
Steel fence is invisible--
Freedom's illusion.

Dull gray weathered shack
Is made vibrant by sunlight.
Who cares what's inside?

Broken dead sapling
Bends over to crown the log:
Forest danse macabre.

Last daily haiku
Written on this garbage can;
Lovely tradition.

Keeping Itself Cold

 Package on the porch
Left by UPS Santa;
Nice way to start day.

Blinding yellow light
Shining between the pine trees
Fills up the kitchen.

 Today, field is bright;
Small pine tree casts large shadow;
Mirror stream trickles.

 Shadows everywhere
Paying homage to the sun;
No cloud in the sky.

 

Delicate peeled bark
Falling away from the tree
Yet still holding on.

Cradled by dead leaves
Small block of snow near the road,
Keeping itself cold.

Two different shoes lie;
The mystery is now solved:
Furry Belle left them.

Old election sign
Stuck in back of the truck:
"Vote For Pete"--who's he?

No Dialogue Here

 

Not a sign of white;
Just gray gloomy threat of snow;
And cars, always cars.

 

Colors are subdued;
The pine trees have lost their sheen;
Grass not green nor brown.

 

Single patch of snow
Lies at the foot of my porch.
Cows moo, roosters crow.

 Rooster crows, crows caw;
Giant hawk sitting on tree.
No dialogue here.

 

 Mourning dove's soft coo
Echoing through the forest
Breaks the cold silence.

Shadow on the road
Appears for just a second;
Then it's memory.

Twisting and snaking
Root emerges from the earth,
Then dives back again.

The old shack windows
Look outward, inward, reflect;
There's nothing inside.

 

Nonchalance of Fear

Hanging in mid air
Bark has fallen from the tree
Captured by the bush.

Blinding clear sunlight
Blares bright into my kitchen.
(Windows are dirty.)

They last forever:
Brown leaves lying on the grass--
Half way to the earth.

High in the tree top
A large deserted bird nest
Laid bare by winter.

On one side crows caw;
Other side dogs bark, doves coo--
I walk the middle.

The bright dappled woods--
Illuminated pine trees:
Play of dark and light.

A swift van passes,
Stirring up a cloud of dust--
Shadows in the air.

Bird steps in to road,
Sees me, and flutters away--
Nonchalance of fear.

Still, Pine Trees Tremble

 

Flat brown sunlit lawn;
Stripes of light falling gently;
Color in the pine.

 Wires between trees;
Straight lines contradict nature;
Flat shine on my porch.

A last lump of snow
Lies against the picket fence.
How long will it last?

There's barely a breeze
As Chris and I walk the road; 
Still, pine trees tremble.

 

A dirty gray cloth
Hands in the middle of the air;
Someone put it there.

The ancient stone fence
Crumbles slowly in the sun.
Leaf flies across road.

Architect has Left

Sun light on the hill;
Dead leaves on ground but no snow;
Where has winter gone?

A lovely cobweb
Hangs in my kitchen window;
Architect has left

Glowing in mid air
Pine needles hang in the sun;
Morning has broken.

Shadow in the barn--
Lone figure a silhouette;
Roosters call again.

No cloud in the sky;
Tree shadows fall on the road;
I salute myself.

Pond--just off the road;
Could be deep in the forest
For its solitude.

Slipping through seasons
Rocks slowly slide down the hill.
Will they reach the road?

 

A tangled bramble;
Wind, snow, rain, age and death
Have reduced the trees.