Winter Cafe (Day 314)

The table where we used to sit is empty, 

bare but for a handful of citrus-hued leaves, 

uncomfortable chairs that never supported 

our backs or, frankly, our behinds, have been 

turned upside down, stacked one on the other 

and chained together like escaped convicts 

in an old movie--in it together until they are 

killed, recaptured, or freed by a stranger 

with an axe. You may have noticed, I am not 

being terribly romantic. There were days when 

seeing our favorite place this desolate would 

have depressed me. Perhaps, I would think 

of a simile, about how the sidewalk cafe was 

like our life together, unloved, abandoned, 

or some such. But today, looking at the bereft, 

rain-spattered tables, feeling the damp chill 

creep from the sidewalk into my toes, I think 

only this: I am different now. And I am glad.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image via Pixabay

Orchard Waltz (Day 268)

October

windfall scents

crackling air 

red and gold 

apple  pear

cobblestones 

pave pathways

and clearings

cricket choir

announces

post-harvest 

consensus 

diffident 

bullfrogs grunt

their assent

in the wings

November

whispers

goodnight

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Derek Harper

Haiku for Day 267

Downpour of darkness  

Inviting elk to forage

Antlers pale as smoke

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: skeeze via Pixabay

It's Like That (Day 264)

It isn’t a slow song that gets to me, 

but the shuffle of boots across

a sawdust floor, dry as august 

weeds, screen door banging against 

the frame from time to time, 

red dust coating on the chairs. 

It’s the way a certain singer’s voice 

breaks just there, at the edge of that 

single note, and how the steel guitar 

falls away from the band to sway 

through a slow swing solo. 

The beer is just okay. The crowd, 

rough as brand new, 

never-been-washed 501s.

But that boy, with the silver band 

around the crown of his dark brown hat? 

The way his eyes darken as he plays, 

and the skin at the nape of my neck 

tingles in anticipation? He brings me 

back, and back again.

It’s like the shuffle of bare feet on 

a wide-plank kitchen floor, the scent of 

strong coffee brewing on the frost-bitten 

edge of a long autumn morning. It’s like 

the sunlight glazing each falling leaf 

against the backdrop of a cedar forest, 

so the trees seem to be raining fire. 

Yeah. It’s like that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Charles C Pierce, Inside the Yellow Aster Saloon, Randsburg, California, ca.1900

Gingko (Day 249)

Xanthous gingko quilt

Fetid swathe of silken fans

Unfurled overnight

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: TeamGrayDuck

Autumnal Indulgence, ca. 1985 (Day 237)

Beneath bunting 

   leaves of wine 

      and gold

air warm with autumn

light 

      we walked together

hands clasped

      we sailed glistening 

black highways 

to the sea 

   and back

       before you 

explained

in the gray dawn

       before you 

decided 

I should 

       know

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: wikimedia

Indulgence No. 2 (Day 229)

Sirens, my old photos.

Luring me with silvery songs:

“Real love, true, forevermore—”

Leave me wrecked on the reef of Now,

Nightmares of happiness circling.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

I Am Cold Weather (Day 223)

Today I am cold weather   damp 

and wind-chimes   after that picturesque 

and uninteresting summer

     What can I say

     Outside cars read the street like Braille 

     running wet fingertips

     over the night she was buried 

and I climbed into my mother's lap 

and she held me 

and I cried

and then she dipped my fingers 

and toes in warm honey

and brought me upstairs 

and tucked me in to bed again

     Gone now   like summer 

and I am wearing thick woolen sweaters 

and socks to warm  

and I'm in bed

     —warm cat cool sheets—

and I miss the days when everything 

     seemed like it would be all right 

     for a while

and we were so happy 

and wet 

and windblown 

     into that narrow restaurant

     in a gust of leaves

and umbrellas insufficient for 

     an oncoming hurricane

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Roman Boed

Angels Admitted (Day 222)

In these hours of fascination 

the mountains, running north 

to south to north, have had 

the uncommon good sense—or 

imagination—to admit angels. 

Not to be left out, watery realms 

from oceans to streams also 

extended gracious invitations, 

but leave no doubt about it:

it was the mountains who 

started the trend. Now, when 

the very air seethes with wishes 

and threats, an angel on bended 

knee, can be found in every puddle, 

on every street corner. Do you doubt 

the truth of this? Then drive beyond 

the clipped seams of your cities, 

into a rolling countryside on a cool 

autumn morning. There, in the small 

valleys and gullies, where creeks trickle 

and rivulets flow, you will see, with 

your very own eyes: angels rising 

in ribbons from the earth, and 

on the hushed air, their misty sighs.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: CGCowboy

Late Pears (Day 221)

Late pears drop through 

branches and leaves  landing 

with muffled plops on 

overgrown grasses  rotting in 

the sun  drawing bees and 

hornets to sip delicately at 

trickles of hot syrup  

soon leaves slip off trees and 

ships rock  creaking with truth 

and frustrated eagerness  

slickly filtered through a veil 

of midnight smiles.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six 

Image: KRiemer

Are You the Same (Day 213)

are you 

the same one

or did i succumb  

to thin gray sleep 

at dawn  and dream

your name 

look back 

at the day  drawn 

bright  askew

how  in the damp 

blue evening 

we can be 

the light

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Antietam Battlefield, Robshenk

Autumn Haiku (Day 209)

Autumn trickles in.

Light shifts, leaves rattle in wind.

Still, summer lingers.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo source unknown