the haiku project began as something vague, an elaborate excuse to take a few minutes out of every day to contemplate a single stanza.
and it never had ambitions beyond that.
angels trumpet blooms
tiny victrola horns playing
pale pink melodies
   
  sagging, toothless grin
dusted with december snow
tired jack-o-lantern
 
    Bright white vapor trails
sketch strange hieroglyphics on
this blue autumn sky
  this iris harbors
no ambition to become
a willow tree
 
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