Dusk in August: three haiku

***

Crescent shimmers white,

Oak limbs stretch into the night,

I breathe blue-deep calm.

***

Slivered moon hangs low,

Oaken branch unmoving, hushed,

Mysteries of night.

***

Blue air motionless,

Silence sits in white of moon,

Stillness in my bones.

We Don’t Much Care for Broken

(sadly, no picture here)

She sips from the lantana on my deck,

wings russet orange and black; I tiptoe

close and see one wing is shredded,

torn. I tuck my camera away; who wants to

focus on the brokenness of life? We don’t

much care for broken.

*

We like things whole and picture perfect.

Even healers shrug at times to tattered

lives, “Oh, merely chronic this or

chronic that.” Unable to repair, to mend,

they tuck their interest away. We don’t

much care for broken.

*

But broken wings still fly, and broken

bodies, broken souls, press on and whisper

courage; shine light that glimmers in the

shadows of their lives.

*

Forgive me, butterfly; forgive my shuttered

mind, my turning from your brokenness;

I turn again to sing the strength tucked

in your tattered wing; in mine as well;

perhaps together we can sip lantana joy;

together shelter from the wind and rain;

together shun the label “broken”; dance

instead to melodies of wholeness hovering

always just beyond our grasp.