One Haiku Today

Trees sway together;

Wind roars around snowed mountain;

Hens cluck nervously.

Snow is Playing and Shouts

 

Blank of silent white
    Covers everything outside;
    Sun tries to break through.

White forsythia
Doesn't move a single branch;
Puffy snow clouds fall

Even dead branches
Lying snow laden by road
Sport holiday flair.

As silent as snow
Birds flick out from the branches
And flick back again.

From the frosted hill
Distant calling of children.
Snow is playing and shouts.

Descending white clumps
Hit the earth without a sound.
Snow fall is silent.

Road signs are blank white;
Their identity erased
With a few snow strokes.

How swiftly the road
Returns to its dirt brown hue
While the woods stay white.

Drapes the Soft Shadows

 

February Spring;
Snow lies across my front lawn.
(Temperature lies too).

Shadows on bare ground;

Soft swaying of the pine trees;
Where the hell am I?

Brown leaves and green pine--
Detritus from past snow storms,
Piled near the road.

Meeting friends on road--
Special brief touching of hearts;
And then we move on.

Forsythia bud
Is not fooled by the sunshine;
Still waits for the Spring.

Mid afternoon sun,
Lazier than the morning,
Drapes the soft shadows.

I stop and chatter
And then forget my haiku--
Lost now forever.

Near the tree's top branch
A dead dry leaf still holds on--
Too strong for the winds.

Old telephone book
Wedged in the tree for six years--
Wood returns to wood.

Soft welcoming mud
Has trapped some sets of foot prints.
(They're going nowhere).

With Sharp Blades of Black

It's Valentine's day;
Shadows are bright in the sun
On their snow palette.

Steady water drops
Falling from my roof's gutter
Hinting at spring time.

 

 Weed against the fence
Framed by the brightness of sun;
Winter is brilliance.

Even snow refuse
Glows in the brilliant sunlight;
Shine trickles in the stream.

Dwindling snow maid,
Once an upstanding iced girl,
Now a melting ball.

Shadows in the snow
Cut the light in their darkness
With sharp blades of black.

The old stump buddies
Still face each other and talk
In hushed wood voices.

Gnarled upturned tree root
Looks for nurture in the air;
Has lost its grounding.

The Poet is Not a Meteorologist

 From walk of Thursday,, February 7

A giant snow storm?
In my imagination.
The sun is shining.

"Winter's getting long";
"Be careful what you wish for"--
(Some useless statements).

Ribbed clouds in the sky;
Shadows falling on the road;
Where is the snow storm?

Buddha and shovel--
One is waiting for the snow;
Other's just waiting.

 

Iced tributary
Doesn't make it to the stream;
Frozen in mid flow.

 

The bench is empty;
It faces the empty house,
Filled with memories.

Down in the deep glen,
A man walks a big black dog;
Different universe.

A piece of tin trash,
Hurled by the side of the road;
 It's Budweiser Lite!

Not Three Unparked Cars

 

Blue/gray snow morning;
White flakes floating in my mind,
Soon to be falling.

 

A thick grinding sound
Passes by invisible;
Swiftly fades away.

 

One bobbing snow flake
Whisked up the road by the wind
Passes overhead.

 

The children are gone;

Maybe one child in a mile;
(What does the sign care?)

Not three unparked cars;
Blank spaces of they are not,
Have left their unmark.

 

Stones and logs are white;
Through trees pond is a blank sheet--
Late winter pallor.

 

They are teasing me,
These soft driving flakes of white,
Promising snow fall.

Pine branches dance
As wind blows deep from the woods,
Silent minuet.