5.8

crabapple blossoms
thickly blanket underneath
stirred by a crisp breeze

Tanka 5.3

bright dandelions
stretching their necks far above
the soft green grasses
tip their faces to follow
the path of the summer sun




Haiku 4.19.21

nestled in the grass
seven tiny violets
hiding from the sun

Haiku 5.30

wood smoke and lilac

waft across the fresh cut lawn

slowly the night falls

Tanka on Tuesday 5.12

bumblebee looping

clumsily between flowers

pausing on each one

your head rests on my shoulder

I smell flowers in your hair

how the conversation might go

I would like to tell you
about how the purple flowering vine
clings to mortar
holding the bricks into a wall
as it climbs towards the sun,

but I’m  afraid
that if you stopped by my porch
for simple conversation
and a coffee

I’d say instead
how the tendrils
gripped the red-brown bricks
with little hairs, translucent,

tiny like the ones sprinkled
across the curve of your stomach
that only could be seen
from my head nestled there

in the afternoon light
dappling us through the lattice
as we cling to each other
on the double wedding ring
quilt spread carefully on the floor.