Sunday morning
jack-in-the-pulpit
his silent nod
climbing the gate
into no-sound
thick under hemlocks
birch and boulder
around the hill or over it
the path
on the granite boulder
tongues of lichen
the scraped knee
stony hillside—
even the cow paths
drenched with light
mother and child
the cows
always at home
sweet fern
crushed between fingers
the scent of time
blackberry tunnel
round the oak’s bones
emptiness
empty acorn
under one white oak
a whole new forest
shades of green—
hairy-cap moss
five fingers deep
filling
her picnic basket—
seedling, shadow, leaf
scarlet
wintergreen berries
for winter’s glass house
red-headed
soldier moss marching—
the far end of a twig
pipsissewa—
holding its name
in her hands
bracket fungi
in earth-scented duff
concentric circles
the woods road
never going
to the end of it
Jenny - You have a knack for providing us with striking, unique imagery - wonderfully worded too. I have several "favorites" here, though these might be my very favorite:
ReplyDeletepipsissewa—
holding its name
in her hands
filling
her picnic basket—
seedling, shadow, leaf
What an incredible haiku walk you've taken us on!
Thanks, Janet. This poem is about my childhood in Connecticut, about 30 miles from Newtown. I posted it now as my way of grieving for the children and the childhoods lost there. How painful the contrast between what ought to be and what is.
Delete--jenny