Haiga Archive

storm clouds
all the colors
in a raven’s call

watching
people watching
wildlife

a month to Christmas
old man crams into a sack
the last leaves

miesiąc do gwiazdki
starzec upycha w worku
ostatnie liście

Christmastime
stars taste
of cinnamon

mid-winter
something extra
to spike the coffee

pickling onions
the sharp tang of vinegar
she leaves the room

you didn’t notice you loved her until you watched her, back turned, hop-scotch across the sky. they didn’t ask for reasons, but cast their fears in metal, and waited for those long celestial hours to turn to clay. tracing a filigree road through the heavens, the hooligan spirits are spitting a canvas of litter and mud. it hangs in the met, between warhol and matisse, and turns trapezoid on every other thursday.