Unassuming Haiku Musings
I have never known
I have never known a providence more divine than Nova Scotia.
Department
Seventeen syllables, give or take a grievance. Small observations pressed flat and dried — the red pen mid-bleed, the morning mid-thought, the indignity mid-stir. The form is ancient and the complaints are modern, which seems a fair trade. House rule: say the little thing exactly, count the syllables loosely, and end before the feeling overstays.
I have never known a providence more divine than Nova Scotia.
A little green sprout pops from the ground, turns about, straight off soils itself.
Tufts of hair sprouting, from my ears—of golden corn dressed in silk tassels.
Whitman's Leaves of Grass— bold, unpolished verse that stirred Oxford's learned dons.