Bird on a wire

dark spruce, falling snow
shadow of house eave shows
flakes falling, falling

remembering snow
on old television screen
now this snow silent

starbursts on pavement
sparkling where car tires run
on salt the snow left

little evergreen
lying curbside stump upward
tinsel shred sparkles

borough truck rolls by
heavy, bed overflowing
piled with Christmas trees

small winter cherry
red fruit spilled on cold concrete
two dark spheres dangle

awkward flutterings
sparrows copulate on curb
in fallen petals

blossom on the street
pick up, carry home wilting
revives at the sink

pop! under my feet
among yellow ginkgo leaves
globes mimic pink grapes

berries on sidewalk
scatterings of hawthorn tree
raindrops on bare twigs

trophies in a box
set out for the garbage men
sparkle through the dust

nest in low branches
woven grasses, twigs, feathers
and one plastic strip

pear petals sail past
hawthorn's tiny new leaves,
blow across pavement

Still walking

When I walked in the woods of the mountain subdivision where I lived 24 years, I wrote one, two, up to six haiku per walk, adhering to the traditional themes of nature and seasons, the images usually juxtaposed with human incursions.

Nine years I've lived in town, walked in town, and just now the haiku start coming to me. Images of a human landscape, and nature's incursion.


Sylvia Plath wrote about a trophy in The Bell Jar. She likened its engraved date to one on a grave.
The trophies I write about were my husband's, and their engravings reminders of the vital athlete whose ashes lie under a stone with a later date.
(I didn't put his trophies on the curb; I photographed them and then donated them to be re-used.)