Here it is, the 30th of April, my birthday, the end of poetry month. I have (and can I get a drumroll?) succeeded in writing a haiku a day for the whole month, for a total of 29. (One more today.)

Granted, some of them are pretty bad.

But some of them, aren't. And I've written more and better haiku in this regime than I would have otherwise. That ( Read more... )

the scent of ancient moss
in my baby's hair --
over and over, it's spring

I almost wish this were the last one for the month; it has a last poem ring to it. One more day.

 tulips in a vase
lean toward the window

complication:
the roof garden
has fooled a nesting goose

suddenly drunk --
the smell of hyacinths

more peaceful
than the sound of warm rain
on a dark window:
the breath and sound
of a baby nursing

waterfall at midnight --
we walk toward the edge
of the sound

I try to write about clarity
my husband starts snoring

Pruned branches
beneath
the budding cherry --
the baby sets her jaw
just like my dead sister

It must be spring:
even the evergreens
are changing color