ROD WILLMOT
One day I thought of writing a haiku for each rib of my canoe. The idea led further than intended, for in time there were characters before me, with a story, told in the 9-month season in which (where I live) a canoe can be put into water. The haiku had doubled, accounting for both the ribs and the spaces between them. The result may be considered a novella with haiku; it is a form of what the Japanese call: a haibun.
musty shed
winter light
on the overturned canoechipped paint on the boathouse
faster
the slapping of wavesmist on the water
a dog barks
oncethe canoe sleeps on
through the singing of pebbles
we walk upstream
[from: THE RIBS OF DRAGONFLY, Black Moss Press, Canada, 1984]
So much in those haiku
never got the hang of it, but I still try
cannot capture a ray of light, I guess
Winter light stillness
Disturb not things as they are
The moment happens
I think of you daily and send prayers your way
for strength and healling
Thanks for all of your work. I do appreciate you !