Ceci n'est pas une haiku

Yesterday, I tried
to cut the tag from my new scarf
without ripping the fabric,
the tiny stitches defying
the dull blade of what were once
my mother's scissors,
a heavy, stainless steel pair
with chipped enamel handles
and rust-spotted blades.

I keep them in the kitchen,
where they mostly open packages.
They are tough enough
to stab through rigid plastic,
or slice through cardboard,
but not the delicate tool needed
for snipping thread.

I was too rushed, too lazy, too uncaring, too haphazard
to search for my sewing scissors,
the pair with the sharp blades
and the fine points.

Now, I'm searching for a way
to connect this to my mother.
Our relationship like the sturdy scissors,
made to do the rough work families do,
provide for each other,
see our loved ones safe and fed,
but unsuitable for the more refined work
of making each other happy.

Or maybe the connection is this:
That I never learn,
I need to learn,
that my failure to take care,
to get it done, rest later
always ends up tearing the fabric.

100 haiku challenge, 55

It took about a week for this to emerge, but I like this much better than the last grass haiku. Surprise! It arrived while I was cutting the lawn.

Suburban confessional
Forgive me neighbor,
I have sinned. It's been three weeks
since I mowed the lawn.

100 haiku challenge, 54

We let the grass go,
there was no way to mow, so
we weed-whacked it down.

100 haiku challenge, 51, 52, 53

I wrote a few haiku in Esther Short Park the other day. I need to get out at lunchtime more often.

Ering, I've decided to only give the poem a title if one occurs to me. Why force it?

#51
I have monkey-mind,
Thoughts ranging and throwing shit.
The tulips--silent.

Strange conversation
The train horn echoes,
bounces through the park.
The crow caws! in response.

#53
Sun emerges from
behind a cloud, sending light
to warm my bare feet.