It’s really tomorrow. Not Wednesday, but Thursday. That statement alone should warrant a haiku, you know? Perhaps even with the same syllabic spacing, yet— Poetry appearing as a broken branch of wateroak, the same tree outside my window. The abstraction of language brought to an extreme notion of a linear sentence. Shaking off grammatical expectations. The experience of the poet-speaker brought to forefront of the verse. Midthought. Midsentence. Midepiphany. What results is the haiku itself. Product declared and presented. Leaves curled, browning already, even though it has been, what, two days? Three? The shutdown of the greenfuse within the branch itself. The branch as a body. The energy of the branch leaving the reality of the body behind. The sense of self separated from the trunk, as a metaphor for the typical introvert in self-induced isolation. A security exists in seclusion, avoidance of people, of crowds.
(5) not Wednesday, but
(7) Thursday. Skewed timeline merges;/merging
(4) with fresh haiku
(5) fresh lines of haiku
(7) Broken branch of wateroak (5)
we watch our neighbor’s/red
oleanders / shiver
870. —not Wednesday, but Thursday. Broken branch snapped from fresh lines of haiku.