Valley Haiku
by David Bowles

The dry brush crackles,
wilts feverish, awaiting
those tresses of flame.

Blood-warm Gulf waters
spin out clouds, frenzied by the
sun’s languid embrace.

Storm clouds form a wall;
a skein of lightning cracks bright
and makes it tumble.

Summer shade, trembling,
watching for her father’s car—
film-inspired kiss.

Dog days of summer
that growl and sink white fangs deep
into November.

A northern storm of
white hair and Bermuda shorts:
winter has arrived.

The temperature dips
to a cozy sixty-five.
Old men sigh, content.

Twenty-eight degrees—
farmers coat their trees with ice;
school is cancelled quick.

Dew clings tenacious
to the windshield, shrugging off
insistent wipers.

The mall parking lot,
replete with Mexican plates:
it’s finally spring.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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