6:50

sunday dusk

the sky lets light go

from its shoulders

Two Haiku Written While Sitting with a Dog

Beagles know their mind

Maybe you have your own plan

Sorry, stop right there 

*

What's that tall thin weed

that scattered my childhood’s grass 

with efflorescence?

Sunday Afternoon

The colors taken—
lavender violet—what’s left
for wisteria?

*

I long for the nod
the generational wink
that says yeah it was

*

Is it still in me
on an unfamiliar trail
the power to shine

Two on Time

Eating lunch alone—

the best, have done it for years,

once was someone else

*

I talk to my plants

a thing from the '70s

but faith comes with age

Living Room Haiku

Air plant—bouffant coif. 
Five paperwhites—tourist group.
The table? Town green. 

Mid-December Haiku

The end of the year.
“Red light, green light” comes to mind.
A kids’ game. Stop. Glow.

*

Senses mark the days.
Rosemary, salt, marble, pine—
which smelled, tasted, felt?

*

Child's crayon drawing:
red cardinal, snowy bough.
That old novice dream.

Three Haiku

The orchid wilting.

Found bright on the cold sidewalk, 

weeks ago. Don’t die.

*

My evening world, home: 

dog’s eyes, tea, laundry spinning.

What happens outside?

*

Mom was always first 

on my list of prayers. Now 

someone gets her slot.