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Keith Kumasen Abbott
Haiku

our round mirror’s dirty
where some flowers died
against my reflection

lukewarm tea in a used glass
smelling faintly of wine
me and the moon

the spider’s content
enough rain to hatch gnats
sunny days to let them fly

billygoat watches me work
scratching his wool with a horn
he stinks, too

your hand in clear water
another hand like yours
a half-inch downstream

random brush wipes
on the paper towel
look like a lovely painting

not distracted by words--
Buddha as cliff--
a flesh landslide into robes

the grief counselor
makes a lame joke
in the cancer ward elevator

a windy clear day
outside my mother's funeral
two stragers talk

our honest neighbor's rolled
a piece of my firewood
back under the fence

what she thought was
a mourning woman a Soto monk
weeding the lawn

drop my new pen
among my other ones
it becomes just another pen