April Haiku

If maple syrup

was the very blood of trees,

I’d be their vampire.

 

 

Blue carpet fibers

reaching, curling underfoot

tickle sole and soul.

 

 

Let’s try some “magic”:

place the veil over our eyes

and force us to “dream.”

 

 

A silly poet

playing a moot language game,

tapping his fingers.

 

 

“A small flame inside”

is a romantic first line;

it doesn’t work here.

 

 

“Be concise,” they say.

To me, life it too concise,

So I say, “delay!”

 

 

Breath-taking genius

has revealed itself to me

through everyone else.