Seated on a bench, my haiku teacher (left) and my haiku friend write haiku on a beautiful spring afternoon in Overfelt Park in San Jose. Lines of shadow lead to the bench. And, there's California sunshine! Now, my teacher, Kiyoko, is no longer alive, except in those of us who remember her. My friend and I are preparing for an April trip to a haiku conference in Matsuyama, Japan. She will deliver an address on Kiyoko's life and that of her husband, Kiyoshi, who founded our Yuki Yeikei Haiku Society (www.youngleaves.org)
This is a sequence of haiku that I wrote for her while driving home just after she died. . It appeared in Modern Haiku the following year..
HIGH DESERT HAIKU FOR KIYOKO
driving westward
the sun makes it hard to see
—news of her passing
tumbleweed and sage—
white steam rises easily
from holes in the earth
the long straight highway—
so unexpected her death
in this cold season
on bare desert sand
a heart fashioned from black stones
—dust-laden wind
lone desert peak
a single long cloud above it—
winter rain
white alkali flats—
her forty-nine days just begun
at the year’s turning
winter desolation
along the railroad track
a row of tumbleweeds
outside the motel
sun glazes the mountain rim
—departing year
Yule icicle lights—
all I wanted to ask her
sticks in my throat
not wanting to think
this might be heaven’s blessing
—winter mountain
the Pie Jesu
sung in a soprano voice—
winter cloud
her haiku spirit
reaches out across the landscape
depth of winter
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