Will the wind?

 

Will the wind calm tonight or will rain lash

through black billows, and pillows thrash,

embattled as shutters rattle, and the attic lists

and creaks? Night is fierce when the wind is,

and the soft sounds are silenced by the thunder

of elemental din. Rain falls, groundwater rises,

and in-between the moat fills, surrounding

stone walls with water, primitive, and no boat

to float us through the ocean of the night.

Perhaps instead, we will ride the trembling

air, buoyed up on billowing, pillowed sails

and the feathered questioning of an owl.

March morning

marchmorning1

Mist falls and lies and seeps where sun should

shine and fill the damp spaces with glitter.

 

Cold clings to cottony seedpods

spider-webbed with droplets, while

 

birds squabble for crumbs or distant call

among the black trees, singing up the change.

 

We watch the unchanged, the hanging, falling

mist mixed with cloud, and the cold digs deeper.

 

Only I wait; earth, birds, mist, silent shoots

and roots stir, strive, uncoil, too busy being.

Haibun for March

A March haibun for the dverse prompt.

 

Wind blows, bends the trees, still leafless but greening or white with blossom, roars in the chimney and rattles shutters. On the meadow’s edge, the hares race and the deer rest sniffing the scents of new life coming. Clouds bowl on the back of the west wind, sky washed pale blue, fresh as the salt sea, and the trailing threads of geese and cranes gone a-viking shout their joyful homecoming songs.

blossom froths

foam beaten by the wind

spring tide running high