Haiku

My attempt at the form of haiku for the last day of April

Restless blossom breeze
Waters whirl, the dark too deep
Flowers in the pond

Swallows’ liquid song
Drop on fences, sing of seeds
Sow the field with shit

This timeless April
White blossoms too soon are gone
New leaves bud on trees

Absence of silence
The complexity of sound
Water breaks on rocks

Silent seduction
Moonlight wafts through window’s screens
Dark hair draped undone

Passive light on cars
The spokes of wheels spin and turn
The streets smell of rain

An Open Window

wood smoke and wet mulch
the simple scents intermingling with warmth and water
and a strand of distant lilacs
winds around the fragile breeze

the moon a distant figure
peering over the night unseen
untouched, not feeling or tasting, smelling the calm dark
just a washed, clean cut reflection
in depthless water
in depthless slants of time and shape and color
a gentle pallor on a gentle night

warmth and the fresh dew on grass not yet ripe
and the bodies beautiful illuminated in the dying hush
the last seconds of silence seeping like water down streets lined with light
caught and petrified, moving on
lacing the scent of blooming flowers in dark hair
poets of the perfume
weaving fragments and lines into the fabric of the night.

Rebirth

The sun streaks gray, shies away from smooth skin
white and timid
the clock reads another hour
and the sun fades a little brighter
and the silence seems to recall a domestic daydream of childhood
playing on tile floor
cool and neutrally comfortable
and looking down
and the focused pinpricks of light in her eyes
running racetracks on the floor

she runs water over hot hands
and holds her hair back
and looks to the window
the empty streets outside dried leaves
on the driveway in tire tracks
car passes a silent breath of wind
motor’s exhale and gone

and she holds back her hair
feeling that something is missing
and runs the water too long absent-minded
and ignoring the ashtray
a crushed dank butt not smoking not breathing
the life gone
and the white noise runs on
the water turns off
and she feels the sun and stands just existing
pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen
for that and this moment

nothing more

The vice—close the afternoon
the rain-black beat back the closed curtain trimmed enameled
wooden fixtures in the cool glassy reflection
her gray-stained eyes
blue
her bright alive now sleeping crimson hair
draped in curling carelessness down her shrugged shoulder
her voice speaks just a little calmer, cooler
it’s colder outside and the glass fogs and freezes
rain down the corroded tin
the half-heartedly hammered sheet-metal roofing
the shed outside playfully rasping the keys
rough and off-note slightly
her face pale and wondering waiting
looking back her profile remarking
and the faded greens, fragilely wrought
by warmth and silent suicide
grow bolder
she sits, cat-like by the shade
and whispers sweet nothing apprehensions to the silent clock
the quiet ticking of the rain