Out of Season

By Doug Sylver
Seattle, Washington, USA

Not that it wasn’t appreciated
however unexpected
Not that it wasn’t beautiful
however out of place
Not that it wasn’t surprising
however disturbing

A cherry tree
blossoming full
pink fireworks
but in December
not even winter yet
let alone spring
another palindromic day
12/11/21
 
Haiku-worthy
cliché as it is
but Basho is walking
uphill 
while me down
and he’s taking notes 
on his cell phone
noticing the colors
nodding to them
in their sparseness
noticing my noticing
nodding to me
in my sparseness
and this far north
next door to Canada
a stone’s throw from Alaska
tanka-worthy maybe but
I haven’t counted yet 
I haven’t even written yet
 
You say I am keen today and
since the wind is south by southwest
I know a hawk from a haiku
and a handshake from a handsaw
you should see me on the
other days
and in the
other winds
then you’d agree 
perchance that
beauty happens even
when unexpected
then you’d agree 
perchance that
when everything
and everyone
should be gone
there’s always hope
for disturbing surprises
even then
and especially when
they’re out of season.

The garden in November

By Doug Sylver
Seattle, Washington, USA

Preparing it for sleep
with maple leaves in various stages of decay
a foot thick between soil so cold
and warming burlap bag blankets
with names of coffee companies 
from around the world
Cafe Viejo from El Salvador
Cafe Verde from Ecuador
Cafe Nuyorican from Puerto Rico 
 
It was a tough year to be a tomato
cold wet spring
hot dry summer
records falling everywhere
nature falling everywhere
raspberries tinged with wildfire smoke
gardening gloves tinged with wildfire smoke
my eyes tinged with wildfire smoke
 
But there were others
successes
potatoes hiding underground 
happy to be safe down there 
and squash of every shape and color
asking, like beaming children,
are you proud of me?
and the soil, the earth itself 
so permanent and 
so ever-changing
ignoring us 
with all our good intentions
and our constant need to fix
everyone and everything
and like us, 
these maple leaves
of every shape and color
in various stages of decay
laughing at us 
on our way there
laughing with me
on my way there
underneath a warming blanket
preparing myself 
as well
for sleep.

This time

By Doug Sylver
Seattle, Washington, USA

This is when the Quileute tribe
calls getting to be the time
of no more berries.

Earlier sooner this time than ever.
It has been prophesied by others
that it will last for a time 

times and half a time.
Which time, which times
which half a time is this?

What happens after it has gotten to be the time
and the times of no more berries?
And then, for half a time

when no one can taste the memories
or recall the many times of berries?