A Haiku a Month
Over the 2022 holiday season, I had one of those coveted moments when time stops. “Write a poem about that,” I thought minutes after emerging from my reverie.
Appropriately, given that my split-second reprieve from daily life was tied to the season—it was snowing—I ended up writing a Haiku, the “short poetic Japanese poem that often responds to nature and the changing seasons” as the formal definition goes.
As I typically do when I’m excited about a new poem, I sent this haiku to my friend Dallas. Dal is a poet himself (and a photographer). More importantly, he’s a high school English teacher with a box of literary chops that make students talk about him years later; the one who made them perk up and take an interest in literature, and, not coincidentally, the world. Dal is a killer poetry editor.
He liked my Haiku—I was psyched—and he had a thrilling suggestion: In 2023, write one a month.
And so, here we are. The titles mark the day the haiku-worthy moment took place.
Thursday, December 22
Work’s done, suitcase packed.
No fondness for cars, yet snow
brushed off tenderly.
Saturday, January 7
String quartet tuning.
We drag in more chairs. Light rail
boardings have tripled.
Tuesday, February 14
Special election!
Drop box brimming. Volunteer
pointing to her watch.
Saturday, March 11
E-bike charged. Race to the grocery. My house guest absorbed in a book.
Tuesday, April 18
Years past, Tom brought me to town. Years on, his grown son greets me in the park.
Tuesday, May 16
The mayor’s lobbyist holds forth in the foyer. Look at his mute aide’s eyes.
Friday, June 2
A proper welcome to a city. Falafel truck. Late night dinner.
Sunday, July 16
Unlocking my bike near 1 am below a window. Friendly lights.
Wednesday, August 2
Uninvited guest scurries from under the fridge. Rancid nursing home.
Friday, September 15
My good luck Hermes statuette falls on the floor and breaks. Clever god.
Sunday, October 22
Suddenly rain on
the trees, then on the tennis court. Then gone again.
Thursday, November 23
Thelonious Monk’s
disappearance upset me,
but he’s safe and sound.
Friday, December 1
Ignored: color of
anxiety, evidence
of anemia.
Sunday, January 21
The last thing you say
before falling asleep is
will you hold my hand?
Friday, February 16
Approaching their house.
A window aglow. It’s them
asleep on the couch.
Tuesday, March 12
Doing research for
Dad’s obituary found
legal precedents.
Thursday, March 21
After the Satie
my body believes it lives
in New York City.