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