Haiku by Thomas Page

 

The november rains 

Pour down into the foggy

Plains b’low hidden sun. 

The faux-jade apple 

On the faux-mahogany 

Desk. Are these hands real?

I cannot name the 

Stars more ancient than I am

With lights eclipsed now. 

The trees grew orange-red, 

The others stayed green-yellow,

The trunks look the same. 

The palm-reader’s map– 

Like redwood’s interior—

Are circled with age. 

The ice flows slowly

Rising while the dying coals 

Fade slowly–a chill. 

Electricity, 

The eclectic erasmus,

Is pulled from the gut. 

Hope, the arrowhead, 

Can only be fired with

Patience’s pole attached. 

The deer, the forest’s

Ghosts, wander in the ruins

Made of lumbered wood. 

I see the clouds painted in

The pearly-pink sky

Under a gold sun. 

My eyes, the shutters, 

Pull close and drift away like

canadian geese.