Haiga Archive

this thing called
middle age
confined to space and time
i learn to let go
of definitions

splintered summer so harsh… so startling

my mother’s face
poppy petal
in bloom

The november night
musty, damp and cold, shone on
mildly, by a street light

ocean waves
wearing my cares
down to sand

departing autumn
under the books
my lost muse

dried in the sun—
they fold to winter
wild herbs