to the small poem and the quiet voice within

rod willmot | the ribs of dragonfly


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 canoe

chipped paint on the boathouse
the slapping of waves

mist on the water
a dog barks

the canoe sleeps on
through the singing of pebbles
we walk upstream

[from: THE RIBS OF DRAGONFLY, Black Moss Press, Canada, 1984]


  1. Susan Hannus

    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

  2. LaVona Sherarts

    Thanks for all of your work. I do appreciate you !

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