Zk | Haiku

Arctic fox’s den adorned with flowers and snow garden in winter

A measure of grain and a measure of water — spring’s own time and heat Air carries the scent of myriads of lives spent on summer’s warm breath Crumb and density, warmth buried beneath crisp crust — autumn’s crackling leaves. Loves and loaves and loaves baked for comfort in the cold — winter calls for stores.

Leaves fall, grass withers, and I step back to witness winter’s frozen form. Half an hour’s silence, body relaxing slowly, letting springtime in. A season to stretch, then one to learn everything — summer’s exploring. What will autumn bring? Maturity? Strength? Wisdom? Dry heat and cool nights?

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 — the year starts to fade.

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’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?

Her eye turns inward, vision dims and movement stills as winter claims her. Thoughts like leaves fall slow, hesitate, drift, rustle, sigh. Frost-rimed remnants rot. Some paler she asks:
do you see the sky through me? Do I frame its mien? That pale she lacks words. She does not speak, cannot speak without the wind’s hum. Still she asks, all breath, am I invisible yet? Does snow tend steel skies? And when her breath fails, 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, silence, or fire. No one answers her. She stands stark against flat skies, ice claims bark, claims wood. Darkness comes heavy. Sleep for now, sleep forever, midwinter cares not. Neither, now, does she. How could pale wood think of whens? Of thaws and green things? The sun tells her lies: Melting snow will feed your roots, Seasons imply change. She does not listen. Pale she does not believe him: Brother sun’s too quick. Brother sun tolls days, and pale she has no more need for hours with seasons. Brother sun’s movements are breaths to her: days blink slow when spring is a dream. Sister moon speaks now: follow me, set time by me — my months are guideposts. Pale she sleeps, sleeps still. Waking her may have listened. Endless winter calms. She invites cold in. Water, crystallized, freezes; cells lyse, die in droves. If spring never comes, pale she supposes, that’s fine. Winter is for dreams. She’ll dream, or she won’t. She’ll carry on or she won’t. Cold has claimed heartwood. No one perceives her. She becomes terrain’s wild hair, a forgiven sin. 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, venerate her mute demise. Cut her down, cord her. A new life in fire, for pale she gives heat in death. Let this be her spring.

Blackbird calls, calls twice And I am anchored in earth. Thirsty roots in Spring. My hands reach skyward, Housing the dreams of blackbirds. Restless Summer nights. The blackbird’s dry call Echoes the rattle of dry leaves. Autumn tells me lies. Blackbird against snow proves waking