winter haiku

a winter poem —
black words perch on white paper —
five crows on a wire

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A Murder of Crows

A murder of crows stirs
in the tree that is my heart.

Morning light warms black feathers
and then they take flight,

dark premonitions scattering
on the day’s errant winds.

Words spill like autumn leaves.
Snakes bask in the heat

of the compost pile.
Crows are ubiquitous,

they can stand the cold.
I know they’ll come home

to roost on bare limbs in a tree
gaunt as a saint in winter.

Crows in Winter

Three crows and I
going about our business,
the day a crisp retort.

They mock me
for pushing snow
from here to there

When all you have to do
is wait for spring.
Maybe they envy a little

My opposable thumbs
that can work the zipper
on a goose down jacket

But their feathers, shiny black,
are perfectly ingenious
beyond anything made by man.

…for a strange poem that wants to be beautiful

These are notes for a strange poem that wants to be beautiful.
It starts, you will not be surprised to learn, with the full moon
behind broken backlit clouds, shining through in a pattern
that reminds me of the Crab Nebula, words you will now
Google Image Search, and in the process you will learn
it is made of stardust, remnants of a supernova explosion
whose light reached Japan in 1054 A.D., and now we are thinking
of your Samurai poem and wondering if stardust is made of fragments
of old poems that have echoed across space since the Big Bang.
What’s the difference between naked and nekkid? Nekkid, you say,
is fixin’ for trouble. What’s the difference between violin and fiddle?
Fiddle, I say, smells like beer. My hand is on your damp back
as we  push through the crowd to the dance floor. The moon
is high above the clouds, a single pearl on the black velvet sky.
Three crows were on the road this morning, signifying what?