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 and stops

but the river . . .





Holding the water

held by it—

the dark mud.






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






Good Friday

just out of tree shadow

 the white hyacinth