Haiga Archive

wild roses
cascade over the gate
to our past
holding hands, we step
backward into childhood

fallen petals
spill from my basket
each one
a bruised and scented
poem for your pillow

stardrifts we slip into the depths of winter

a mirage
of mountains beckons
us homeward
we don’t know their names,
but they know ours

polar night
a snowy owl
fades to black
 

persimmons
peeled and hanging
out to dry…
autumn’s harvest
shines brighter this year

it was
as if she were
a butterfly
the way words flew
from her open hands