Sun streams through fall leaves.
Glowing like stained glass, these trees
Their own cathedral.
It’s bare bone season –
Turkeys and trees both stripped down
To essential things.
How unrelenting,
all these joys and frustrations
of loving someone.
Tag: everyday poetry
Haiku Friday – NaBloPoMo #11
Solid in my hands,
Warmth passing from tea to mug to me
morning tea grounds me.
Open and inhale
Little Free careworn pages
The sweet smell of books.
Cool weather bike rides
These are days I like living.
Perfect balanced joy.
I’m writing this post as part of NaBloPoMo – click here to see who else is participating. You can also leave me questions for an upcoming “Ask me Anything” post via this link. Happy reading and writing everyone!
A Cute Kid Sayings and Three Haikus
We put up our Christmas tree this week, something that takes several days to complete. We get the tree one day. Then the lights go on, often when the tree comes home, but sometimes not. Then the ornaments go on. Then a few days later we remember to put the ornaments from our wedding on.
Most of our ornaments come from the Husband’s family. My late mother-in-law loved Christmas ornaments, and the Husband and his sister would get a new ornament every year. When my in laws passed away, we inherited all the ornaments, mostly because his sister lived abroad and it would have been difficult to get the ornaments to her. We have two large bins of ornaments and they run the gamut from classic balls to Romulan War Ships that light up.
The process has not been with not without its casualties. The baby managed to break at least three ornaments so far. I hate that the breakage happens, but I suppose banning kids from tree trimming is not an option.
The morning after we hung ornaments, the five year old said to me:
“Decorating the Christmas tree is an activity for everyone, not just grown ups. That’s why the Christmas tree has high branches and low branches!”
I love his five year old brain.
Three Haikus from This Cold week:
Waiting for the bus
4pm. Winter dusk brings
Moonrise and pink skies.
“Can you touch the sky?”
He asks of the bare tree limbs
Poking at the clouds.
Drafty door, splinters.
It’s a little bit broken,
Pieces we call home.