Abbot

One hair on his toe

grows longer as the moon wanes—

the barefoot abbot.

Bowl

plastic water bowl

cradling summer’s bloodred moon—

old dog drinks his fill

so brilliant the moon

that even the whippoorwill

hushes its calling

rocking the spring moon

in a cradle made of willows—

wizened shaman’s hand

scribbling a few words

on her son’s Big Chief tablet—

haiku for the moon

narrow woodland path—

old woman stepping aside

to let the moon pass

cemetery blues—

the lieutenant’s new white cross

skewering the moon