October moon

Trace the yellow tide- boundaring the glory of the sugar maple

Lately transformed into a golden orb 

Each branch extending around the brightening icey blue sky

The apex culminating with the waning harvest moon

A woven basket of light 

A peerless smile

Landing Haikus

 July 9
This is where time starts
To begin again means to
Depart the old way

11
Eleven months is
Too long and not enough: tick
Tock: Love is always

Left behind (1)
The greater the loss
The more you loved, so they say
Multi-verse at play

Left behind (2)
To be left
Is not to be lost
Don't forget

Grammar
If 'to be' does not
Exist in the present, do
I exist at all?

Vows
Bring them home!
Billboards vow never
Forget/give

Home
Love flowing
Between latitudes
Home expands 

+8 GMT
Daylight comes
To you first I'm in
The dark waiting

Show me your face

Fateful day, long awaited 

With dreams fortelling 

Regrets mounting; 

Unattended death

Abandoned life

Unattuned presence

Neglected nurture

Fatigued compassion

Unchained melody 

Crooked comedy 

Unhinged guilt

Aching disharmony 

Fumbling with grief

Is this a tragedy or this a relief?

I will make it to the end if I can just see your face. 

Anvil

Forging strength 

Struck against the hard 

Hope’s weapon 

 *haiku from The NY Times Wordle 

Intimacy

Communion and oneness

Softness and toughness

Touch and timing

Intimacy is being with

Within, knowing

Is closeness and seeing, into

Seeking understanding

Naked and safely seen

Vulnerably exposed, 

Receiving and accepting, all.

Giving for the good of the other, 

The higher and further 

The now and not yet, 

The forever. 

Threshing the hold

As I depart,

Even as I enter,

The expanse expanding

The excitement and fear combining

This host of emotions, 

grieving and welcoming

Threshold crossings

Moments of holding on, 

of always being held.

Ebbing glow

From my bedroom I hear birds chirping, waking up. Sunrise in 34 minutes. 

I write, picturing the dusty blue of pre dawn veiling the crispness of night, picturing groping in the dusk to the raspberry patch, collecting first fruits of July, in tears of remembering my bodily longing for this moment of tactile revelation from afar; the gentle tug of the plump berry in to my hand, marveling at the oblong perfection, the splash of color on my mouth.

The sweetness of fulfilled longings tinged with the holy grief that seasons end. That closeness will ebb due to the limitations of time zones and presence and capacity, the slow dance of holding and releasing.