Haiga Archive

the crow has flown away—
swaying in the evening sun,
a leafless tree

setting in the trees
and in birds that have flown away
it resides in me—
the void of afternoon
just a sad rustle

on my return home
at each intermediate station
a different sign

lonely life
without love and touch—
only bubbles

oh god,
you made the eight day again
as monday

new morning and
repeated thanksgiving ritual
greeting to the sun

old moor
in it still the colors of
the dragonfly