It’s a moody Saturday in Austin, Texas. Gray, humid, steamy. But that doesn’t mean that nothing’s afoot.

Haiku 11, 2026

Drama of the day
waiting, ready in the wings
Curtains of clouds rise

Thank you, NASA, for letting us in on all the moon joy magic. I’m so glad the team is home safe and sound and, also, I wish it wasn’t over.

(Photo Credit: NASA)

Haiku 10, 2026

Parachutes open
wispy dandelion seeds
Our hearts are afloat

Seasonal allergies can be rough. They masquerade as the flu, for goodness sake! But the whole spectacle is really just the trees and flowers doing their business, spreading their love, surviving. Who are we to argue?

Haiku 9, 2026

Pollen drops like rain
painting the whole world yellow.
Why fight love’s splendor?

Change and uncertainty can be so scary and unsettling. Most of us like to know what’s what, at least some of the time! But these days I’m finding comfort in the transient, the ephemeral, the indefinite and unfixed. Nothing, not even all of this (*looks around wildly at the state of the world*) is forever.

The scientists and spiritual teachers tell us that things change, evolve, don’t last. That’s just the way it goes. But also, we can participate. We are so creative. We are ingenuous! We have great ideas. Our hearts are like engines. We make things happen. And before long, what was becomes something new… just like that.

Haiku 8, 2026

Nothing is static
They bend bamboo into boats
The wind comes in waves

It is hard to even shape words around what is happening on Earth right now, which might be why the bravery and curiosity and devotion and humor and generosity being evidenced in space — via the Artemis II mission — feels like good medicine. Or art. Or love. I’m here for it. I’m grateful.

Haiku 7, 2026

Seeds in a slipstream:
Humans, dancing with the moon.
We watch in wonder.

My oldest daughter has an album on her phone consisting completely of cloud photos. It’s no wonder. The sky is full of endless beauty, shape and mood. And sometimes, as curious humans, it is in really looking at something that we start to understand or make sense of it. Clouds nearly beg Rorschachian interpretation.

This submerged limb evoked the same desire in me. What is that? What does it look like? What does it mean? And who am I to say?

Haiku 6, 2026

Breaking the surface,
this insistent, antlered limb.
What lies underneath?

Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend about how much alone time we need. In a nutshell: More than other people need. Or at least that’s how it seems.

That’s not to say I don’t love people unspeakably much! I think that’s one of the things I love about poetry — and literature of all kinds. It allows us to connect so deeply while also giving us space. What magic!

Anyway, this morning on the trail I came upon this green heron. Sorry for the photo quality — he was not interested in posing or making his presence known. Lucky for him, almost everyone walked right on by. For some reason, herons always look kind of grumpy and hunched to me. Like a grandfather on a bad day. I kind of love ‘em for it, even though it’s probably not true. (Personification has its limitations.)

May you all find the space you need today. xo

Haiku 5, 2026

Grumpy green heron
hides like a knot in the tree
Nothing to see here

These days, it can be hard to be hopeful or joyful. It can be hard to be an optimist. It can be hard to be human. There is So Much Noise. There is so much cruelty. So much, well, idiocy. So much overwhelm and upset.

But if we lose track of each other, if we lose track of all the goodness and wonder, we are truly sunk. I think haiku are one itsy bitsy way to remind ourselves not to lose track. To stay curious and even, sometimes, awe-struck. To laugh. To celebrate the occasional win. Here goes.

(These songs were captured the other day, but I assure you… it’s pretty well constant!)

Haiku 4

As if they planned it:
Cacophony of birdsong
beats out leaf blowers

I am lucky enough to live minutes away from the perfect way to start a day. All the runners and walkers and rowers and cyclists agree. We find ourselves here, before checking the news or our work emails. We know the barrage awaits. But first, this.

Haiku 3, 2026

Water waits calmly
knowing the strokes are coming
Even morning breaks

Oh, y’all. We have been in such a drought in Central Texas. Creeks that used to run, don’t. Red Flag warnings are frequent. Even the bluebonnets were a little paltry this year. And then, this morning, it rained. Like, a lot. Deep, muddy puddles in our backyard. A river rushing down the curb out front. And thunder. Big, echoey, boomy thunder.

Our beloved old dog, Keeper, used to shake himself half to death when it thundered. He was a big tough lug of a dog, and thunder turned him to absolute jelly. Now we have Poppleton. He’s goofy. Lighter. Sillier. And, in the just over six months he’s been alive, there’s been very little rain and no thunder. Until now.

He would like everyone to know: HE IS NOT A FAN.

Haiku 2, 2026

Thunder shakes the sky
demanding attention now.
Dog cries in response.

Oof. It was sad over at our house this morning. But, good news: the remaining puddles are making it all worth it. Heading out again now.

PS — Put your OWN haiku in my comments!! We’d all love to see it!