Time Haiku, Number 64, August 2026

wolfsnow the howl in it

showy milkweed

the first monarch

and the last

clouds tower

over sun-drenched fields . . .

my sister leans

from a golden turret,

letting down her hair

tuffets sprout

alongside this river . . .

the first

nursery rhyme I read

to our unborn child

rowan trees

dripping with icicles

each berry

a singular moment

frozen inside time

 

Time Haiku, Number 63, February 2026

waterfalls

tumble onto the beach . . .

a sea wolf

catches my eye between

veils of shadow and light

lumber camp

a wood tick burrows

deeper

puddingstones

the heirlooms passed

from parent to child

meteor showers

our faces wet

with dew

koyo there is no other name for it

Time Haiku, Number 62, August 2025

the postman

says another blizzard

is brewing . . .

I reread your letters,

steeped in my solitude

katabatic winds

blowing off the glacier

overnight,

tundra and ptarmigan

seasoned with stars

you kept

most of yourself hidden

from the world . . .

an iceberg flips over,

showing its true colours

Time Haiku, Number 61, February 2025

moon race

a scallop ignites

its rocket

hurricane agate

I cup your hand

around the wind

a groundhog

sees its shadow . . .

showdrops

I hand-stitch

a bereavement quilt

through the night

silver threads unwind

from spools of my tears 

Honoured to know that the following work was selected as Best-of-Issue Tanka in Time 60:

paper-thin roses

from your memorial . . .

I crush them

between palms that have

lost the will to pray

Time Haiku, Number 60, August 2024

a snail finds

its second home . . .

garden cloche

savannah sparrow

I am so far away

from home

shrinking ice

polar bears swim out

of the picture

paper-thin roses

from your memorial . . .

I crush them

between palms that have

lost the will to pray

Time Haiku, Number 59, February 2024

adder stone one eye open to the world

crooked pier

someone's name carved

into my shadow

remission

fireflies rising

with the mist

the glint

of pink salt crystals

in a glass jar

we season our food

with particles of light

how lustrous

this rose gold ring

bequeathed to me . . .

I spin your words

around my finger

 

Time Haiku, Number 58, August 2023

purple heather patches of light here then gone

ghost town

a sand dune

makes itself at home

the things

our headlights miss . . .

late-night radio

snow moon

the last train

to nowhere

tonight

I imagine myself

a tree,

canopy full

of roosting stars