Colorful beads drape
Desert grasses -- frost parsing
Light's long white sentence.
I like a lot the prismatic sparkles you invoke with color and white.
* * *
Wind scrapes the pond’s glass.
Where lilies surfaced, bloomed on
Summer’s mirror, ice.
That last is the best I've seen of your haiku. It gives my mind a little twist.
I have been having such fun in the snow, my thinking has gone fanciful.
On snowfields, ice scurf
Crusts drifts, scales serpentine winds
Shed slithering by.
__ __ __
No clever questions?
From the Costa Rican rainforest:
Vines mesh a green wall.
A river otter slips through.
Night breezes follow.
Questions seem quiescent. Wintering, likely.
Out of sympathy for the obvious shudder against winter your words show, I pulled this out of run-off from our summer spin:
Clouds sink. Between storm
And stone, eagles turn four wheels.
Swallows flash. Then, rain.
-- -- --
The river otter is a nice, sinuously warm-blooded gesture. You get birds.
I can't chase summer like you do.
Must be my Anglo-Saxon prior lives, but the words cloud, storm, and stone sound like thunder to me.
The river otter was fascinating to watch. Chasing summer? Yeah. But otherwise harshness:
Winter's void sucks warmth,
Exchanging nothing. Even
New snow sublimates.
Color: one of the sweet pleasures of winter ice.
Snowflakes lick morning
Light, thread blue, green, pink rays through
Needles of the eye.
Wisteria twists,
Bare, grey vines net the sky,
Catching only space.
Something about placing needles near eyes that makes me squirm.
Catching only space.
Space is huge.
Week's worth of storms ring
The horizon, tall, white blooms
Crowning winter's cloud.
Your snow haiku stung; mine made you squirm. Poetic justice?
Excuse the error; son with loud voice distracted.
That should read:
Week's worth of storms rings
The horizon, tall, white blooms
Crowning winter's cloud.
Justice is a hard kind of poetry.
Creek falls on silent
Rocks; splashes bathe the splash-born
Ice that limns the grass.
Turns out early a.m. winter walks are ok when I wear a hat.
Who knew?
"... splashes bathe the splash-born
Ice ..."
Very nice. It has an epic edge to it, perhaps because it somehow calls up the sea.
On snow patch frozen
To shadow, a cicada's
Shell, last spring's tatter.
Delighted to hear that you've re-invented the hat.
Your note led me to re-read the stories of Thetis, sea-born. Thanks. After reading shards as a student, several years ago, I read afresh the Odyssey in Fagles' translation. It has infected my writing ever since.
the cicada's shell is marvelous on a zillion levels. Like Hollow Men, but without the despair.
Light warms soil beneath
The time-burnt pinyon needles,
Presses against night.
I know I keep writing about this, but everytime I see it--this year, often--it grabs me.
White flint kernels strike
Rainbow flakes twixt the grey limbs
Of shadow on snow.
Yours reminds me that the equinox is a little more than a month away.
What should we do with this thread? Keep going and see what happens? Wrap up?
Winds twist dry oak leaves.
They let go, while the aspen
Show new, grey catkins.
Got one more to help this to rest?
Don't know if this will do it:
Larks mend their fence post
Songs. Wild geese twang overhead
In feathered arrows.
Sean, I wonder what would happen if we kept a haiku thread running a full year.
Would the geese hatchings be "fletchlings"? Or the lark songs "patchworked"?
Perhaps an earth's round of haiku should be next.
It is, after all equinox...
"fletchlings ..."
"patchworked..."
Both perfect.
As for the other matter, but hop, and I shall follow.
And, um, I have to ask ... is an equinox the sad outcome of some clumsy venture in genetic engineering?
I think the usual term is "gelding."
Which, in it's own way, can result from an especially clumsy venture in genetic engineering, I suppose.
Commenting by HaloScan
