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