by William M. Ramsey
The brown-haired woman walking the beach my way
carried an afterbirth, fresh and dripping,
as sea foam rose to curl around her ankles
and then receded into the wrinkling ocean.
I watched her stride northward toward the point,
to a rising moon that was eggshell white and oval,
and from my lips came silence. Cutting my umbilical
I began the journey, drying in the breeze,
carrying a pageless book, a pen, and a yellow bloom.
I wrote a haiku on the flower, pressing it in the book,
at dusk lying down by a jagged driftwood to sleep,
particles of sand, wind-driven, rolling into mouth and eyes.
From Modern Haiku 39:3, Autumn 2008, page 78.