ARISING
The haiku is often what is not said. The spaces filled by personal recollection. And, of course, catching the moment a mind jolts awake.
This haiku,
Wordless, is
What is not said.
The shaped voids
Becoming occupied
By personal recollection,
A sorting of remains,
Catching the moment
Mind catches sight
Of itself
Mirrored.
These words have no meaning.
And these lines are silent.
No sound, no movement.
In the heat of late summer
The shrine in the mountain forest
Filled with the gossip
Of old men in green shade.
Storm sweepings
(debris of the sway of the world)
Sugi smoke rises and crackles.
In its own dark hall
The taiko drum plays with silence.
Unstruck, its taught skin
Ripples out roundness
Beyond sound.
Ripples across Sewa Lake,
Waves of branches in the wood,
The oncoming typhoon.
The cicadas ignore,
The ants map
The grey weathered boards
Of the audience chamber.
The carefully robed priest,
Each toe grasping the steps,
Opens the door between worlds
With invitation and gesture.
A slow wheeling of kites.
This sign is not in use.
simonhlilly 
the sign “not in use” so useful “wheeling” – excellent Simon
Thank you? A motorway sign we pass frequently.
Loved this – with me loving haiku, i guessed that I would. 🙂
I am not so attached to the form itself, rather the lambent resonance that a good haiku sets off. Thanks for visiting and your comments. ( i do find a lot of your own haiku hit that mark – and your longer pieces too, are often jewels).