slow-flowing sap, rise
and bedeck reluctant twigs.
Mute passion runs deep.
One thing I like about poetry in general and haiku in particular is that it’s useful to talk about things which no one but the poet understands. I often feel that way reading Mary Oliver; something must have sparked that MOMENT for her, and she writes something which nevertheless appeals to the reader and touches them deeply, but we – poet and reader – have two very different experiences going on. I guess it’s that way for all writing; the reader/writer interaction is never the same.