Inklings

In the spring Liza and I took a haiku class, and I learned finally that haiku are almost impossible to write.  The hardest form in the world, I should think—especially for those of us to whom succinctness isn't natural.

Instead of trying for haiku perfection, which only tongue-ties me, I've invented a new quasi-haiku, a savory tidbit approximating the old Japanese form but falling far short of its demands, the series of exacting silver hoops through which the expert (or hopeful) practitioner must jump.

These, my inklings, are modest and unassuming.  A brief moment in time, only, not opening vistas onto the universe.  Snatches of song, a puff of dandelion seed caught by a playful wind.

Here are two for today, from my growing collection.

my haiku notebook

like a paper cup

collecting minnows

summer breakfast:

the woman from the place of Irish cows

pours heavy cream on peaches

—Christie