William J. Higginson

 

More intricate


than all winter's designs,


this spring flake

 

 

 

 

from the sandy beach


I stumble into
 the dark

path fireflies

 

 

 

 

A wet night


garbage cans all full


but the far one

 

 

 

 

The clock
chimes

chimes and stops


but the river . . .

 

 

 

 

Holding the water


held by it—


the dark mud.

 

 

 

 

caterpillar


atop the rock


the rising tide

 

 

 

 

evening star


almost within


the moon’s half curve

 

 

 

 

this spring rain


the thief too


curses his job

 

 

 

 

grey dawn


ice on the seats


of the rowboat

 

 

 

 

the tick, tick


of snow on the reeds . . .


sparrow tracks

 

 

 

 

New Year’s Eve . . .


thieves have left my car open


in the falling snow

 

 

 

 

commercial break—


the cat and I


head for the kitchen

 

 

 

 

the fence post


hangs upright in the washout—


mid-summer heat

 

 

 

 

going over a bump


the car ahead


going over a bump

 

 

 

 

the old cat


hesitates on the doorsill—


a falling leaf

 

 

 

 

summer storm . . .


a shopping cart rolls past


the end of the lot

 

 

 

 

winter twilight


only a few old bakers


in the potato bin

 

 

 

 

crescent moon


would I look at the clouds


without it?

 

 

 

 

origami frog:


what old pond is he hoping


to find in the dusk?

 

 

 

 

I look up


from writing


to daylight.

 

 

 

 

writing again


the tea water


boiled dry

 

 

 

 

reading renku—


every stanza links with


the midwinter cricket

 

 

 

 

thankful for


the books just received . . .


snow piling up

 

 

 

 

musty smell


forgotten . . . deep


into the text

 

 

 

 

spring rain


rereading my own book


I fall asleep

 

 

 

 

Christmas concert


I sit in the seat of my


hospitalized friend

 

 

 

 

misty rain—

dry pavement under

the ambulance

 

 

 

 

fireworks crashing

and fireflies so silent . . .

tomorrow the biopsy

 

one maple leaf . . .


end over end on the sand


 without a trace

 

 

 

 

wet snow —

another color or two

 on the sycamore boughs

 

 

 

 

bend after bend

hill after hill folds into

 Mogamigawa

 

 

 

 

Good Friday

just out of tree shadow

 the white hyacinth