SITTING ON A PARK BENCH ON A WINDY MORNING
A pretty robin lands on the grass
and looks at me as if to say
‘You’ve given up the ghost, haven’t you?’
I don’t respond, I simply write a short haiku
that starts with “a robin lands on the grass”
‘How rude’ he retorts as he flies off with a worm dangling,
I watch him fly high above Grace Cathedral,
San Francisco fog dispersing
on this lonely morning,
words are ghost themselves, they come
they go, they are remembered or stand outside windows forgotten,
wanting in one more time
and the wind continues to sing to me
and I lean back to daydream.
I read "a pretty robin", and I thought,"this isn't Ed"! But by the ending line, I see the entire word picture and am satisfied.
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