Back Roads Haiku

My back roads are unpaved, quiet, undeveloped, dusty in the summer and muddy in the spring. Walk along any of them and you are likely to see old family cemeteries, stone walls, streams, ponds, and a variety of flora and fauna. It's where I live, and the source of most of these haiku.

crescent moon -

the subtle clicks

of falling leaves


yellowed cornstalks -

a farmer’s hands

in origami


maples reds

a lone crow

in a fashion statement

cloud shadow

on the foothills

… slowly in autumn



my childless home

 - distant falling leaves


early foliage -

her pose on a stone wall

against the maple

milkweed seeds -

drifting off

in a hammock


questions tonight

about faith

… new moon


autumn twilight

ink drawn crows

in silent flight


always the last summer flowers

as a centerpiece


saying goodbye

he seems distracted

… autumn wind


not enough

this sliver of moon

-  silent river

a field 

of goldenrod

taunting the dark blue sea


summer fading

out here leaves are turning

in my own mind


now, more than ever…

those summer boats

through sunlit waters

first frost -


my graying beard


by the old graveyard…

the first of many

falling leaves


walking home

an old song

from the river below

autumn winds

orchard fragrance

from her clothes


a horse’s head

at once up and alert

 - changing clouds


when I come back…

the rich, lasting hue

of autumn clover

late summer rain

with only a threadbare shirt

a smiling scarecrow 

sunday visitors

an apple slice

between thumb and blade


as autumn approaches… 

a quiet moon



one camp lantern competes

 - waning moon


this dragonfly

still young at summer’s end

…where to now?

where two streams meet…

maple leaves

beginning to turn


a warm, woolen blanket

cool orchard

through an open window


shorter days -

a few leaves

rest in the hammock

feeling tired -

through breezy leaves

the waxing moon


on the cusp

of autumn…

morning dew lingers


a child’s reach -


to evening stars

mugginess -

one pumpkin



distant thunder

a barely audible lullabye

to his grandchild


of a half moon

… oak leaves


herb garden 

in the dark…

the mint beneath our feet


night lake -

our moon 


familiar stream -

the cool bed sheets

that await me



strain to gaze 

at this last summer moon


what’s left

in a once rich garden… 

… bumping hips, walking home