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

Solitude

 
 

for her transgression
 
seven years of solitude
 
without book or pen

Cutting

 
 

the editor’s pen
 
cutting superfluities
 
from my first novel

Way

 
 
 

picking up the pen
 
even though the light is dim—
 
way of the poet

Midnight

 
 
 

rising at midnight
 
old poet gropes for a pen—
 
the cry of a loon