Haiga Archive

bells are ringing
even the old floor
smells festive

How long have I been sitting here,
O Nautilus
shell densely wedged beneath this hopeful wisp
of sapphire sky
or pared-back moon,
my February gray?

morning lake
a bather turns her back
to the swan

fallen nest—
the hands take
its shape

autumn chill
the last butterflies wander
through my room

heat wave
I’m trying to remember
the touch of rain

fala upałów
próbuję przypomnieć sobie
dotyk deszczu

after the last glass
the longing look