Friday, July 3, 2009

Blackberry Haiku

Grey sky, torn, spit rain
A hawk moves over the lake
My son is leaving.

Tennis, late afternoon
In my line the men die young
Sweet air, long shadows.

More rain, more rain, more
On tree limbs squirrels pair up
They’ve read their Bibles.

Now: sun after rain
When my dad was hung over
It was clean, like this.

Dreaming: somewhere else
Sun on my bare young shoulders
No regrets: not yet.

No comments:

Post a Comment