Very pale green light
Illuminates the fire house
Keeping it quite cool.

I compose haiku;
My cat sits on my papers.
Who is the poet?

Come and Gone so Soon?

White dogwood flowers
Lie scattered on the green lawn--
Come and gone so soon?

Near Trailways Bus at 5:30 AM

Birds sing in the dark;
It's just before sun rise.
What light do they see?

Lying on My Back--Falling

At the edge of sleep
White fear rolls up silently
And envelopes me.

Lucy Sees the Mist

Lucy sees the mist:
"It's a hundred ghosts hugging--
And they don't scare me."

Listen to the Wind

I am getting so comfortable with the medium of haiku. There is not much room for fat in haiku. It's a lean form that forces me to get to the essence of things. As a writer, I love that. Up to now I have only written haiku about the outside world, the world of nature. That is the substance of my blog, "Yerry Hill Road Haiku" (www.sarvananda.blogspot.com). That has been the substance of this blog.

This time is different. As I lay in bed recently and listened to the wind whining outside my window I was transported to my room when I was eight years old. This is the haiku record of that journey.

The wind is whining

I’m eight lying in my bed.

Listen to the wind.

The shingles rattle;

Downstairs Daddy, Ma murmur;

Listen to the wind.

Is it crying now?

Is this the sound of dying?

I slide down in bed.

Why is it crying?

It’s in the house around me;

Will it be my friend?

I am all alone;

I cover my eyes and listen,

Listen to the wind.

Morning’s far away;

Now there’s just night and the moon

And the whining wind.

Shadows of tree limbs

Sway on the walls of my room;

I don’t like the creaks.

Is the floor creaking?

One small shadow is moving;

Is it a spider?

Time to close my eyes;

Time to pull the cover up;

Listen to the wind.

I am eight in bed

In my room below the roof

Near the whining wind.

I want it to speak,

But now it only whispers.

I want to fly it.

It’s soft and mewing

It moves around like a cat;

Listen to the wind.

I like when it whispers;

It carries voices with it,

Even Ma’s, Daddy’s.

It carries voices;

I try to understand them;

They will not let me.

I have to ride it

And fly out above the trees

Swooping and swirling.

Murmur, Ma’s murmur,

Daddy’s deeper murmur too

Mixing with the wind.

The wind is moaning;

I’m eight and lying in bed;

Listen to the wind.