Wanderings (Day 296)

rain soaked wanderings and clear 

soft mistakes  summer traced 

familiar playground paths where 

flooded streams of shade spread 

in a flood  returning sleep suggests 

once steady worlds of gardens cooled 

by the familiar fluttering moon 

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Image: PatMorgan

Secret Roads (Day 288)

Trickling valleys slide

toward the water, dark 
as cedars standing 

sentinel, concealing 

secret roads 
and urgent passageways, 
branches 

calming the nervous, 

fog-brightened night.

Here, joy turns 
to wonder, grief 
to contemplation. 

New growth, a tender 
haze of green, emerges
before the forest’s 
detached gaze, 
in stillness,
ancient consolations.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Haiku for Day 267

Downpour of darkness  

Inviting elk to forage

Antlers pale as smoke

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: skeeze via Pixabay

Indulgence No.4 (Day 233)

it helps

to flood the stage 

with protest

like hearing every side 

from the wide clear skies  

of my late 

summer 

autumn  

falling  we went out 

undisguised  sweated  

and when 

we came home 

feeling angry  vile  

riled like 

a snake   

an unexpected freight train   

like the days 

of warm rain beyond 

the bruise-green clouds   

we had a precedent 

for the day 

of the storm 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-Photos

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

Shades (Day 201)

shades of neighborhood 

we see day in day out 

these gardens parks 

forests swaying gently 

in the valley's breath 

gnarled from resisting 

mountainside Novembers

chestnuts clover green

blue tinged sycamores 

maples dark as merlot

gathering a harvest 

of white heat billowing

deep into the night

from concrete ribbons 

draped about their roots

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Patricia.fidi

How Summer Wanders (Day 188)

Evening sank, then, 

when we understood 

how summer wanders. 

Then, when the world 

seemed to flutter 

like plum blossoms 

under April’s spell. 

I thought as much—

I remember, too, 

when the shards 

of frozen days 

pierced our hearts; 

you, silently dismayed. 

Soon, in a different light, 

when summer has been 

well-staged, we may amble 

along the sleeping shore, 

mid-day tide rushing in. 

This will happen. 

And we’ll feast on 

the orchards’ spoils, when 

all is sweet-dripping nectar, 

and dozy, humming bees. 

The size of that night sky, 

laced so finely with stars, 

delicate as lichen patterns 

on an ancient stone wall.

You can take me now, 

if you like, into this sinking 

evening, before it is gone. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Inspired by "Ich Denke Dein" by JW von Goethe (Untranslated version)

Photo: North of Slaidburn, Donald Judge

Bluebell Haiku (Day 159)

Bluebells bow their heads 

in the woods’ watery light

and pray for the world

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Photo: Tony Higsett