Eight Haiku

This cold snap . . . bare branch
back lashed against icy cheek
draws anger . . . then blood.

234

Brown-scorched pear tree there
seemed dead, but lo . . . the blossoms
think the fire was spring.

232

Last leaves: silent birds
lingering tenaciously
before falling South.

231

Branch is all I see
across the pane I cannot reach.
I remember tree.

200

Stream, ever-changing,
same. Each drop again here, there,
gone to come again.

195

I like this quiet.
I can hear myself think thoughts
almost never heard.

194

Sparks among ashes
streak to their own extinction
until all is cold.

189

Behind my haiku,
among many things: silence,
the cruel master.

188