I am but cleaning
maid. But this moment eyes the
oak leaf hypnotist.

Basho, Hafiz, and Isa knew haiku. The idea that language should be paired down is no joke when it comes to poetry. Syllable count varies from poet to poet and some haikus just occupy a single line, defying the convention of three. In between my undergraduate English pursuits at Berea College, I sought the barescape of language haiku offered. My peers might have assumed OCD. I saw these lovely performances of leaves dancing over the floor in a whirl of autumn and walked between my classes counting the poems I would write out on the tips of my fingers. This haiku about the leaf hypnotist came when I translated that moment to paper.

Day ahead, mud stained snow.
Long path lit up, as under
quilt. Secretly reading.

I need my haiku to follow most of the guidelines of traditional haiku. Nature words must carry the imagery of a season. Haikus, when harvested, washed, and munched into are important to the root. I want to feel Japan somehow in the poem. My Irish nephew who is my age married a Japanese woman, and ever since then, and their two children were born and became the only children of that generation in my family, I felt part Japanese. These haikus are the evidence that Westerners can learn from the unconventional beauty known as wabi sabi that is found in this poetry.

Gliding over fields,
stream detour. Does heron,
great blue, see her breath?