Finishing the month,

I reach for pen and paper—

butterfly haiku!

With pen and paper

a few days after Easter,

I wait for a song.

Last day of autumn—

with a skipping pen I scratch

seventeen haiku.

Words

three words from her pen

may last seven centuries

or seven seconds

Scribbling

on a blank note card

scribbling one line of haiku

with a bright red pen

for her transgression

seven years of solitude

without book or pen

the editor’s pen

cutting superfluities

from my first novel

picking up the pen

even though the light is dim—

way of the poet

rising at midnight

old poet gropes for a pen—

the cry of a loon

these words from my pen

may last seven centuries

or seven seconds