Tag: Haibun

day begins

Day begins and now the light is bright where I often write. I hear Lake Michigan, no other sounds at the moment.

in some ways
the view does not change
evergreens

Kitchen Window

I remember when the daylilies and hosta bloomed. Not so long ago.

How the yard can be full of perennial colors at their times in the seasons.

Then something small adds so much at another time.

November grey
red holiday bow
on the wreath

shorter days

This morning and now my computer tells me that it is below freezing. Karl reminds me that Lake Michigan keeps us warmer in Fall. Tomorrow when it is light, I will check our thermometer in the yard and compare data.

shorter days
words before sunrise
and words after sunset

September on the horizon

September
on the horizon
all the goals
I can still
try to reach

This is an older poem, and my thoughts today reflect changes and years.

Good to have goals, and good to be flexible and able to revise. For example, I have made good progress on a draft for a new book. One post at a time, work grows. Then the new work is to make selections. Let things rest, and return with a renewed perspective. And I still like Quiet Christmas Poetry (2014, Elin Grace Publishing; second printing 2017). So perhaps the new book in 2022. Every person’s journey is unique. Take good care.

Monday
sun shines on old books
from my mother

Photo by Rachel Claire on Pexels.com
Photo by Thnh Phng on Pexels.com

Garden Journal

I looked at the garden one day, and then realized the plants on the ground are the ferns. They will return.

Sunday morning
tree shadows
on the cedar fence

wpclipart

Cold Monday

Early March, and it seems normal that it is very cold today, though warming later this week (we’ll see). Wisconsin winters. Karl and I went to the Oostburg Public Library, and then to Mentink’s Piggly Wiggly. Another year, I bought a winter coat for ten dollars at Bethesda Thrift Store in Sheboygan. The coat is too big, and perfect to wear with winter clothes.

Monday afternoon
in March
sun fills a bookcase
from my father

Ellen Grace Olinger