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<!doctype html>
<html>
<head>
<title>Zk | Haiku</title>
<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="/style.css" />
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width" />
<meta charset="utf-8" />
</head>
<body>
<main>
<header>
<h1>Zk | Haiku</h1>
</header>
<article class="content">
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">poetry</span></p>
<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Arctic fox&rsquo;s den
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adorned with flowers and snow
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garden in winter</div>
<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">A measure of grain
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and a measure of water &mdash;
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spring&rsquo;s own time and heat
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Air carries the scent
of myriads of lives spent
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on summer&rsquo;s warm breath
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Crumb and density,
warmth buried beneath crisp crust &mdash;
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autumn&rsquo;s crackling leaves.
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Loves and loaves and loaves
baked for comfort in the cold &mdash;
winter calls for stores.</div>
<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Leaves fall, grass withers,
and I step back to witness
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winter&rsquo;s frozen form.
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Half an hour&rsquo;s silence,
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body relaxing slowly,
letting springtime in.
A season to stretch,
then one to learn everything &mdash;
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summer&rsquo;s exploring.
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What will autumn bring?
Maturity? Strength? Wisdom?
Dry heat and cool nights?</div>
<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Seven flies circle,
Trimmers chatter down the block:
The hum of summer.
I listen, silent, waiting,
Breathing in sun and out shade.
Fig leaves like fingers
paw feebly through still hot air
and come up with naught.
Too early for fruit to droop,
we must wait past midsummer.
And I walk until
all I can hear is the wind
among the fir trees.
Summer breezes bear away
all the choices of years past.
Drink deep of death-thoughts
as the day dies with a yawn &mdash;
the year starts to fade.</div>
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<hr />
<p>2020-11-06</p>
<div class="verse">To hear you speaking
Is to lose oneself in song:
Your words are drumbeats.
The rain on the grass provides
A soft accompaniment.
Restless nights arise
And I must pace to meet them:
I can&rsquo;t help but move.
Fingers tracing perfect arcs,
I walk backwards into dreams.
I bow before you.
Your luster leaves me breathless,
Yet I risk a glance.
Who gave you leave to thrill me?
Who gave the birds flight and song?</div>
<hr />
<p>Pale she &mdash; 2020-11-15</p>
<div class="verse">The eye turns inward,
vision dims and movement stills &mdash;
winter has claimed her.
Thoughts like leaves fall slow,
hesitate, drift, rustle, sigh.
Frost-rimed remnants rot.
Some paler she asks: <br />
do you see the sky through me?
Do I shake in gusts?
That pale she lacks words.
She does not speak, cannot speak
without the wind&rsquo;s hum.
Still she asks, all breath,
am I invisible yet?
Does snow blend with sky?
Her breath is gone now.
Dark branches write on the clouds:
Summer is a dream.
Paler still, she cracks.
Dreams, also, of ax and fire,
false springs to thaw hands.
Silent now, demands:
there must be an end, there must be.
Spring and life, or fire.
No one answers her.
She stands stark against flat skies,
frost claims bark, claims wood.
Darkness comes, sight black.
Sleep for now, sleep forever,
midwinter cares not.
Neither does coarse bark.
How could sweet wood think of whens?
Of thaws and green things?
The sun may promise:
Melting snow will feed your roots,
Seasons imply change.
She&rsquo;s not listening.
Pale she does not believe him:
Brother sun&rsquo;s too quick.
Brother sun tells time,
and pale she has no more need
for hours with seasons.
Brother sun&rsquo;s movements
are breaths: cycles far too short
when spring is a dream.
Sister moon speaks up:
follow me, set time by me &mdash;
my months are guideposts.
Pale she can but sleep.
She cares not now if she wakes.
Endless winter calms.
She welcomes the cold.
Water, crystallized, freezes;
cells lyse, dye in droves.
If spring never comes,
pale she supposes, that&rsquo;s fine.
In winter, she&rsquo;ll dream.
She&rsquo;ll dream, or she won&rsquo;t.
Fatalism waxes fast,
cold claims her heartwood.
No one perceives her.
She becomes mere terrain.
Sleeps, and does not wake.
Would she wake for saws?
For axes with keen-edged blades?
Would she even care?
And still the sun sets.
And still the moon waxes, wanes.
And still seasons change.
Should pale she not wake,
so be it, her mute demise.
Cut her down, cord her.
A new life in fire,
for even life must winter.
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Pale she born anew.</div>
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</article>
<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-11-15</p>
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</footer>
</main>
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<script type="text/javascript">
document.querySelectorAll('.tag').forEach(tag => {
let text = tag.innerText;
tag.innerText = '';
tag.innerHTML = `<a href="/tags.html#${text}">${text}</a>`;
});
</script>
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</body>
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