Four Haiku for the Buck Moon

We come to ourselves;
patterns repeat as patterns—
You, me, each our own.
And then we grow up—
Almost as if we planned it:
earth’s procreant urge.
I’m too drunk to think
beyond the now of this page—
Who am I to doubt?
I desire you still,
to hear your voice in laughter—
to begin again.

(July 18, 2016)

Four Haiku and a Tanka for the Hot Moon

Full moon at solstice,
an intersection of time,
which already fades.
Wine and moon drunk,
who am I to question this?
a rose is a rose.
Buttermilk clouds drape
the solstice moon in thin shrouds:
What am I to this?
We think we can know.
Language lulls us into sleep,
as if the moon cares.
Never a still point,
the moon dances the solstice.
Yet another space:
Doors open to us again,
for time signifies nothing.
(June 20, 2016)