3 Haikus || An Oblation of Things

Beneath the red eaves
a spider’s-web sail unfurls
leeward, boughs bending

Moss shimmers silver
old Sol sets in the branches’
autumn silhouette

I lie under leaves
the sanctuary above
earthen priest below

Seed in the Snow

When I step near the sparrows, they prance,

rather than fly away, as if to say I’m not afraid,

            but I don’t trust you.

Getting on my knees so they can see

my eyes, I call their bluff: so soon as intimacy

drops from my hands, the beating of wings

replaces the songs they sung and I am breathing

            steam alone into the snow.

And so I sit, casting seed regardless, because I know:

should the birds not feed, there plants will grow;

birds with flighty hearts in winter never stay,

but rooted trees, despite pain, storms and the axe,

            will always remain.