Balmy spring morning—
 
I linger over coffee
 
and scribble haiku.

 
 
 

Richard Wright’s haiku
 
warm me better than a fire
 
on an icy day.

 
 
 

With every haiku
 
I invoke my father’s name,
 
gone fifteen winters.

 
 
 

The darkness deepens—
 
I write some Christmas haiku
 
and then a sonnet.

 
 
 

Summer conundrum:
 
Do you need a season word
 
in every haiku?

 
 

Beginning the month,
 
I reach for pen and paper—
 
flyswatter haiku!

 
 

Finishing the month,
 
I reach for pen and paper—
 
butterfly haiku!

 
 

Scorching afternoon—
 
I find some shade, write haiku,
 
and savor iced tea.

 
 
 

Early morning rain—
 
I linger over coffee
 
and write some haiku.

 
 
 

Last day of autumn—
 
with a skipping pen I scratch
 
seventeen haiku.