Rain
like children
running barefoot
Haiku stuck
in the cheap pen
I keep in my overcoat
Falling in her hair
snow knows the perfect path
to her spine
Saturday morning
she pushes a plum
into its own shadow
Dew caressing
a young grasshopper
its whole life ahead of it
In this unbombed part of the world
not so unusual
such huge tulips
Windy cold rain
and whatever blinking
is left in the birdhouse
Dawn
no egg
is ugly
It feels good
inhaling the birds
in the cold morning air
___________________________
Ronald Baatz
Hot Fart in the Temple
Black Fig Press 2025
blackfigpress.wordpress.com
