Mary took this photo about two years ago when we were compiling material for "Subway Serenade", but I’ve never managed to write a haiku worthy of it.

Here’s one—only vaguely related—dating back to 1997:

an artist’s bedroom —
four bare walls
and a broken light

winter storm —
nobody wants to walk
last year's Christmas present

winter solstice —
an ex-girlfriend’s name
tattooed to his neck

sunset
the smokestacks
darken

Park Street station —
the B train saves me
from a subway preacher

bent forward
from the heavy snow —
my aching back

winter dreariness —
I can't bear
to look at the moon

raking leaves —
all the apologies
I've never made

Admittedly, the image and haiku have nothing to do with one another. ¡qué lastima!

I've always viewed raking leaves as an acquiescence of sorts—acknowledging that Fall is over and that Winter is inevitable. The harshness of the December wind brings with it an urgency to complete the chore. The task is physically intense, forcing the mind to wander.

The original version of this haiku was somewhat more sinister:

raking leaves —
all the apologies
I'll never make

Once back inside, my perspective softened. Soon I'll view the snow as beautiful and quaint—in a New England sort of way—until I have to break out the shovel...