28/30: minivan haiku #6

Fire cracker sausage,
wrapper peeled back just right.
Minivan world turns.

27/30: the words of shoes

You can see the soles of shoes
flicking back at you
when you fall behind.

They are like eyes blinking,
or maybe winking -
you weren't meant to be up here with us,
you were invited along as a joke.

These are shoes talking, of course,
and they are borrowing your voice.

26/30: blackbird haiku

The river is white ice,
itself a winter snapshot.
The blackbird settles.

25/30: ice haiku

water runs down rock
faces and hardens to ice.
the wind does not bend. 

24/30: snow haiku

Crystal snow bites sharp

against cheek and eyes in wind -

we dig in again. 

23/30: epitaph

The letters carved into granite take far longer to fade

than the memories of the people who carve them.

Gone from our knowledge is wife and mother,

cherished son, devoted daughter.

She was almost certainly a wife and mother, 

but that says so little. Was he cherished?

Was she devoted?

So the stones would have us believe,

unlike the internet, what is carved

seems to carry some weight.

I would prefer you write my epitaph in sand.

Or maybe tromp it out in fresh fallen snow.

All I hope is that you remember me,

but let the memory purify in the sun and wind,

until only the finest essence remains - 

a one line description etched

in the only medium that matters.

22/30: life is heat

The coffeee maker lets out a plaintive beep
to say that time is up -
it's done its work for the day.

The ring of coffee left in the caraf will begin to cool.

Not now, but in an hour
the murky liquid will be cold to the tongue.

Life is heat, and tomorrow
she will bring forth the steam and the burbling blessings
again.