We have a little haiku club that meets daily at our house. The birds serve tea and the trees play host. One talkative bright-blue scrub jay, I call Boccaccio. The dark fir, Shakespeare’s Ghost. Despite their windy natures, both of late kindly defer to the cherry, who is better known in our club as Kobayashi Issa — another name for wealth. Cherry blossoms — which secrets will she keep, and […]
Afternoon sunlight on Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, following a long foggy prelude. In it, the rising snowflakes are small moths. Earlier, juncos were splashing in the mossy-leafy rainwater collected in the birdbath. Most birds, I have found, do not like a clean tub. A scrub-jay just arrived, bright-blue against its bare perch in the fig tree. The shepherd’s purse is starting to bloom. The front sidewalk and retaining wall are deep […]
William Michaelian 