blood moon

blood moon--
stepping into the river
my young daughter

scent of rain

scent of rain--
all the ways
we failed each other

spring meadow

spring meadow
sound of seedlings bursting
into sunlight

luna

budding branch--
luna moth dries
her unfurled wings

creekside

purling creek--
a remembered lullaby
in the mother tongue

hawk

hawk glides
bearing lightly on its wings
heaven

night sky

stars gleam
dewdrops
on a spun sky

labyrinth

labyrinth--
between pavers new shoots green
my meditation

midnight

midnight--
I wonder whether you breathed
this same air once

thunderstorm

thunderstorm--
a child sleeps
on my leaden arm

days lengthen

days lengthen--
my young nephew enroute
to Afghanistan

willow catkins

willow catkins--
newborn barn kittens
open their eyes

cleaving

In the spring of 1993, I was nearing the end of my second pregnancy with a daughter. As she once again dug her heels into my ribs, I was able to clutch her tiny heel through my stretched flesh for a few seconds. It was a precious near-meeting in the bright world outside my womb where I knew and held all of her.

My thoughts turned to my son, the firstborn, whose tiny heel had been pricked countless times and whose burial booties had been far too big. Could he be as nearby as she with only a translucent membrane or mime's wall separating his dimension and mine?

the rising fog--
all that divides us
all that binds us



Published in Contemporary Haibun Online.

robins return

robins return--
a strand of pink ribbon
feathers a new nest

first pale shoots

first pale shoots--
whisking the matcha
to a jade froth

first tree buds

first tree buds--
untuned piano music
from the old folks home

waves

shell held to my ear--
a wave swells and rides
itself to shore

post-divorce date

post-divorce date--
rubbing the pale band
on my ring finger

spring thaw

spring thaw...
an old friend and I
make amends

drip

finally sun--
the icicle's persistent
rhythmic drip

stargazing II

clear night--
the big dipper ladling
the milky way

nesting

robins nesting—
fresh white for the crib
she once slept in

cold front

cold front--
in the busker's guitar case
five copper coins

double

upon still waters
this rustic boat rides
its reflection