What do you say to
skin a half century old
and yet still supple?
What spring is this: brown
bugs breed and fill the house, warm
weather waits, unlit?
Where have paths of thought
left their uneasy traces?
Such a barren place.
You would cry if you
could hear it--the heart breaking
for what love can't do.
The words have gone far
away--not like the winter
birds that soon return.
Around him a fence--
I would build it if I could--
My hands are useless
Haiku are like finger exercises--or like Jackson Pollack canvases. You spread enough paint over enough canvas and surely you'll find some portion you can carve out as acceptable.
So with haiku--you can write three or four hundred of them in the time it takes to think of them, and from them you can cull a few--and it's a start on writing again. It is a launch back into that familiar world. Just as blogging itself.
