An old haiku

I am getting old, as are my haiku. That is not a haiku.

The dawn of brown eyes,

The words poured out from your smile,

Ah, that is beauty.

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The longest day

I hope that this signals a return to writing for me. As always when I start writing again, the words are reluctant to emerge at first…

There is no longer

In this space

the comfort of a young voice

it’s going to be a long day

there is no longer

in this space

a face in that Puck-like pose, that impish insult and perfect eye

it’s going to be a long day

there is no longer

in this space

a bouquet of unsaid words that became said

there is no longer

in this space

a reach into my chest

a grasping

and, lastly, a pull

like blinds coming down

cannot block out the purple fire

of sunset

it was such a long day