Twelve months of haiku
by C. E. Laine
January
Two months, you've
been gone.
I can't put away your
clothes--
it is too cold now.
February
I sleep like a cat--
I have not washed my hair or
done the laundry yet.
March
I am a sparrow--
your reflection in windows,
banging into glass.
April
Green things poke
through soil--
a blanket to warm your grave.
I am cold- so cold.
May
The birds annoy me.
They sing as if you were here.
I close the windows.
June
Your blanket is
thick--
mine is pulled over my head,
despite the noon heat.
July
You explode in stars--
bits of paper with your name
blaze their way to ground.
August
The grass you
watered
fades now, beneath a hot star--
tear-stained; brown like sand.
September
I found you beneath
raked leaves, and a dry-eyed
sky.
The colors are gone.
October
You were sick,
this time
last year-- begging for an end.
You knew I'd listen.
November
Your grave is flat now.
There is green moss on your stone.
Your head rests gently.
December
I folded your
shirt-
your scent clings to the walls here.
I can't put it down.
From the forthcoming
book, The Weight of Dust, by C.
E. Laine.
 
You can
read more poetry at Celaine and This Poet Girl.
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