More Haiku

Black Pen?  Or blue?  Both.
Today I recall great pain
and bruise these pages.

Across the suburbs
monsters hide under our beds
from kids we create.

Every leaf
has its own
tragic Fall.

If airplanes used leaves
instead of two silver wings
then Fall would be Flight.

All their leaves fallen,
graceful trees no longer hide
trash in neighbor’s yard.

It rains on us all,
but the rich ones can afford
to buy umbrellas.

If new snow on field
like blank page awaiting words
then poem is Spring.

In this fleeting dream
any clock can tell the time
— only you can wake

 
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