Sharon Rousseau | Haiku

On my morning walk
two friends dancing in the field
–happy butterflies.

Sudden flash of sun
the parked cars now city strobes
–on Village side streets.

Driving the backroads
past stands of sandlot peaches
–suddenly, the sea.

Summer percussion
echoes from the old trash shed
–bears making dinner.

Underneath the porch
hiding from heat and thunder
–the fattest bullfrog.

Whispers of night breeze
flutter against the curtains
–of ladybugs’ wings.

Much ado about
a particle, partying
astrophysicists

Each raindrop crackles
against the dried brown grasses
–sudden summer storm.

Arcs of fluttering
lace gather beneath lanterns
–moths in summer clothes.

Garden butterfly
shades of buckeye and daisy
–on my coffee cup.

One tiny sparrow
hopping up wooden porch stairs
–very loud footsteps.

Petals fall like stars
through skies sparkling with spring rain
–flowering puddles.

There is one moment
always when I’m not looking
–spring’s first peonies.

Winding through the park
ruffled by feathery wind
–the trails of tulips.

Arbors of wild rose
canopy the bluestone path
–a country farmhouse.

Left neon city
piercing night’s forgotten vows
–in dreams, mountain spring.

Under midnight moon
a snow lantern glows, warming
the path to my door.

The distant lamp posts
now flecks of jade and honey
in winter twilight.

On Sixth Avenue
between Manhattan canyons
whispering wind chimes.

Sometimes in moonlight
the iridescent birch trees
shine through my window.

After the rainstorm
fog drapes the mountain cottage
–two friends lingering.