will twice
bookend day—I suppose you
could call that haiku
if you chose to.
But haiku itself
would never
give away
the name
of streetlamps
which cast creeping
shadows through park grass,
or the blueness
of evergreens
against skies' rising bruises—
least of all,
of deftly transposing
aromas
as one mug of tea
warms the countertop
and cools.
