a haiku

Inspired by two things, I wrote a haiku this morning.

Inspiration #1:  My friend Beth has this thing on her blog called Haikuesday.  Is that not just so, so witty?  I love a good play on words.

And her punniness got me thinking about how when I lived in France, I used to write a haiku every morning.  I wrote a lot about the rain, that dang Normandy rain, and the gray skies.

But then it became spring in Normandy and you know what?  That rain throughout the winter is good for something:  So much green.  So many flowers.  And when you finally see the blue sky after months of gray, you feel like you never understood blue until you saw it in a Normandy April sky.  My haikus suddenly became light and airy and happy, so happy.

Re-reading my haikus from that time is like re-living the weather, and re-living the weather is like re-living what it felt like to be there.  I take one look at one of my little 5-7-5 poems, and I can smell the damp oldness of my apartment and feel the chill wetness to my bones—and do a two-step dance when I remember seeing spring's first flower.

Really, in what other form can you convey so much in so few words?  Trying to fit into the structure of a haiku helps you pare down to the essential, to the heart, to the essential heart of the emotion.

Inspiration #2:  I stepped onto my balcony this morning, coffee mug in hand {one that I got in New Orleans that says "Hot, Fresh, and French" on it}, and I wanted to go back inside for a light jacket.  A light one, I said.

The early morning air had the tiniest of hints in it of the coming fall, a season that always makes me want to tackle new challenges.  I know this is because school starts in the fall, and even though I'm no longer on the school calendar, I hope I always feel like that—like anything is possible, just because the leaves can change colors.  That's a pretty amazing perk of our world, when you think about it.

Without further ado, my haiku.

golden rule days

Crisp August morning
I want to buy school supplies
and learn all day long.