Haiga Archive

first workday
without a job…
I do a bit
of this
and that

ghost orchid
a nightmare
melts into morning

the horse
in his corral a familarity
of muzzle
and apple scented hands

we compose
the music of our lives
with grace notes
scattered between
lullaby and requiem

old leaves under cracked ice the dead of winter

time coils up
into the shape of things
resigned to dust

she never liked
ice cream
missing her