frost-silvered
the withered garden
blooms with light
moonsongs
we drive deep
into the night
a waterfall
frozen in time . . .
I brush
mother's hair until
she falls asleep
thirty-five
types of snowflakes . . .
no one told me
that they would
all taste the same
Note: this issue also contains my selections and commentary for the Museum of Haiku Literature Award
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