SEVEN HAIKU
coming unstitched—
even the fake flowers
grow old
the pain is still there
weeping willow
my father cut down
regretting something I said
I turn the lampshade
to hide the seam
scattered crocuses
as if someone had planted
birdsong
cold spring morning—
close the window
or listen to the warbler?
not so different
veined spring leaf
and my ancient hand
fifty years ago: seeds
before that, nothing—
oak trees outside my window
—from Rattle #81, Fall 2023
__________
John Brehm: “I write poetry for many reasons: to get beyond what I think I know, to pay attention, to experience flow states of consciousness, to delight in the music and texture of language, to connect with something larger and more mysterious than myself, to remember my true nature. But mostly I do it for the money.” (web)
