street chatter fading —
shadow of calligraphy brushes
on the wall

*

photographer gone
the parents of the bride
take a selfie

*

asylum seeker
her sorrow so private
I put down my pen

*

swaggering downstream
drunk on last year’s ice
April river

*

rare bookstore
he removes his hat
as he nears

*

broken love
the weight of the moon
on her heart

*

New Year’s Day
I free one leg from the covers
and stretch my toes

*

after the snowstorm the groan of old pines

*

rinsing bok choy
rivulets of dirt
down the drain

*

winter nightmare
my keys down the abyss
a flight just missed

*

reading a book
he would have liked
another winter

*

vortex of cool air
from the coal cellar
— your absence

*

gala auction
leaving the chatter behind
crisp full moon

*

Calder mobile
red and white panels
reorder my mind

*

slow-moving creek
a box turtle under
the midday moon

*

dry canal
the riverboat peopled
with tall grasses

*

gingko leaves
swallow the sun
and fall to earth

*

breaths so shallow
I wait for the next
rustling leaves

*

from the table
a bruised apple
rolls off

*

morning coffee
the tips of the trees
a bit more red

*

end of summer —
in my son’s room
I try on his shoes

*

from my bathing suit
water drips
ants scramble

*

end of summer —
only a few chips of polish
left on her toenails

*

too old now
to feel bad about
feeling good

*

new passport
I calculate my age
at its expiration

*

summer downpour —
ghosts of a thousand cranes
on the pavement

*

gentle summer night
my daughter’s sobs, the sound
of trains passing

*

amid fireflies
his evening walks
shorter now

*

after our swim
we talk, lingering
in the deep end

*

August night
the porch light bulb
still missing

*

turning sixty
I cut all the deadheads
off the roses


Abigail Friedman haiku featured at Mann Library Daily Haiku July 2025