Spring – Iron Haiku

a neglected path-
moss hides a forgotten shrine
the small gods long gone
–
meditation-
clay teapots
dry in the sun

black america
locked inside the golden door
yearning to breathe free
–
hot city streets-
new seedlings break
through the concrete

vultures overhead-
circling waiting before
feasting on the dead
–
red skies-
a tempest
at our door

drowning each of us
in the blood of our comrades
within sight of shore
–
tulips blossom-
death takes no heed
upon who’s grave

soaring red-tailed hawks-

below veiled skies verdant trees

emerge from the mist

–

between the clouds

and the cut grass-

a wounded crow

shadows of small flags-
with a bouquet of flowers
she runs to your grave
–
mourning doves-
the young man
on the mantle

my rhododendrons-
robins erupt into song
just before the dawn
–
the sun rises-
heedless of the
whiskey and beer

grime covered windows-
watching the rain absently
stirring black coffee
–
street lights-
shadows of rain
on my paper napkin

covered in lichens-
a tall and stately oak tree
sheds its dead branches
–
thin mountain air-
all my baggage
suddenly empty

a chorus of birds-
greening trees cast shade across
our secret meadow
–
slating sunlight-
motes of dust
defy gravity