Last day of autumn—

with a skipping pen I scratch

seventeen haiku.

Short

my life is this short—

a single line of haiku

cut off from the rest

Way

in desolate times

taking the way of haiku

through the wilderness

an open window—

savoring my first coffee

and Basho’s haiku

the year’s first haiku

in a tiny florid script

on cream-white paper

by the full moon’s light

reading a Buson haiku—

carp circle the pond

eking out haiku

one syllable at a time

though the muse has fled

scribbling a few words

on her son’s Big Chief tablet—

haiku for the moon

on a blank note card

scribbling one line of haiku

with a bright red pen

sweeping the garden—

even the haiku master

does his daily chores