i.

The cup I hold is
three quarters full;
I want seconds.

ii.

Begging, clutching
what does not yet exist,
moments slipping through.

iii.

Coals glowing,
the fire draws to its end,
swallowed by momentum.

iv.

Cleaning the shed
of leaves once under your feet,
replaced by the breeze.

v.

How many haiku
of sand washing away,
reshaping dunes?

vi.

Words pile up
under our umbrella,
silenced by rain.