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

Window

 
 
 

an open window—
 
savoring my first coffee
 
and Basho’s haiku

First

 
 
 

the year’s first haiku
 
in a tiny florid script
 
on cream-white paper

Reading

 
 
 

by the full moon’s light
 
reading a Buson haiku—
 
carp circle the pond

Haiku

 
 
 

eking out haiku
 
one syllable at a time
 
though the muse has fled