A Month of Haiku by Michael Channing

A Month of Haiku

by Michael Channing

there is frost then fire
it is in between the two
the world is remade

lonely brittle nest
abandoned by its maker
winter's only fruit

the rain is washing
down the windows of my heart
now i can see you

there is a river
whispering past my doorway
where will it take me

my tree wears a crown
of stars and the moon's halo
keeps court with the wind

walking aimlessly
i found a dead yellow finch
still, it was beautiful

a shaft of sunlight
settles and curls on the floor
with my sleeping cat

the mountains remain
ghostly near but out of reach
when i close my eyes

up a hill of pines
through pools of light and shadow
humbled by giants

tight black power lines
cut the sky into ribbons
the clouds do not mind

deep clover and grass
first warm then cool as water
between my bare toes

in the day's din I
seek the swallowing silence
of a bamboo grove

a bumblebee buzzed
outside the window at work
asking me to play

rolling 'round the earth
the blue sky rubs itself white
against the mountains

twigs crackle like fire
shriveled leaves crumble to dust
with each booted step

time and wind erased
the imprint of my body
from the grassy field

and by forever
i mean, of course, for as long
as you will allow

dawn rises slowly
swirling blue into the black
a single crow calls

tightly wrapped spring buds
burst like emerald fireworks
all the world is green

this stone was placed here
to step me across the stream
by hands never seen

this broken blossom
until it returns to clay
will mark my passing

along the brick wall
fed by paint chips and shadow
a tall strand of grass

amazing, this world
molded over eons past
and placed at my feet

as though the mountain
were breathing, thin evening mist
ghosts upward at dusk

over fresh-cut lawns
over asphalt parking lots
the shadow of wings

the scent of dogwoods
the tack of sap on my palms
remind me i'm home

a curved line of pines
ripple in the blowing wind
like a green river

a dark tear descends
from the dead bough of an oak
and unfolds its wings

a single gray cloud
in a brilliant blue empty
proud and full of hope

i laid down to sleep
in tall and billowing grass
purest luxury

there will always be
grass growing up from the dirt
and bones underneath

Fitted Like Pieces of Puzzles Complicated


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Vestigial
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Vestigial by Michael Channing